It had to be on his day off, the first real one in longer than he could count. Illya had planned to spend it doing nothing of importance, just lounging around, enjoying the luxury of wasting time. He was sprawled out on the bed in his underwear, thumbing through a technical magazine when his communicator sounded. The urge to ignore it was strong, but he was better trained than that.
"Kuryakin." He managed to keep the weariness from his voice. They had hundreds of UNCLE agents, why they needed to call him was always a mystery. Lately, it seemed that it was just him they assigned.
It sounded like a war zone in the background and Illya sat up, suddenly alert. The shouts, screams and the unmistakable crack of weapons firing made his gut clench in fear.
Who's dying? was his first thought. "Kuryakin here, report!" he shouted over the noise. When no one responded, he closed that channel, adjusted the frequency and demanded, "Open Channel D." Only static answered him. His anxious "Open Channel F" was met with the same response. Systematically, he went through all the other channels with a similar response. What was going on?
Instantly he got off the bed and reached for his pants. He was tucking his shirt tail in when the phone rang. It took him a minute to even register the sound; it was so infrequently heard in this space.
"Kuryakin ," he barked into it. That was usually enough to scare off any solicitor.
"Illya!" The sound of his partner's voice, familiar and reassuring, if a bit panicked, permitted him to release the breath he didn't know he was holding. "Did you just get a really odd...?"
"You took the words from my mouth, Napoleon. I could raise none of the channels. What do you think?"
"I'll pick you up in five." Illya was ready in three.
He stood on the street corner, ducking into the car the second it braked to a stop in front of him.
"Have you gotten anything?" Napoleon asked as Illya shut the door.
"Not even on the emergency channels. I tried to contacted London, Tokyo, Rio, and Johannesburg and nothing."
As they pulled onto their street, Napoleon slowed at the sight of a number of emergency vehicles parked in front of the tailor shop. The nearby brownstones were being evacuated. Smoke rolled out from Del Floria's and people were gathered on the street, some soot stained and coughing, others looking dazed and confused.
"Parking garage?" Illya suggested and Napoleon went around the block, stopping at the street entrance. The emergency gates were down and the small parking attendant's kiosk was empty, its glass windows shattered.
"Illya, do you know the code?"
"Yes." Illya punched in the release code and then went to help Napoleon shift the gate up enough to permit them room to go beneath it.
Weapons drawn, they walked cautiously through the garage to the general employee's entrance. The door stood ajar and the reception area looked as if someone had ransacked the place. The receptionist's desk, chair and all the other furniture were upended and all the badges were scattered throughout the room.
Napoleon went to the intercom. "Emergency override protocol NS1 572." He looked over at Illya and smiled. "Now we can move through headquarters without badges."
"Is that wise?"
"I have a sinking feeling that the damage has already been done. Let's go."
Their progress was slow as each door had to be manually released and moved. They'd just gotten to the main corridor and muscled through a door when they saw the first signs of life. Agents were scattering, some wandering aimlessly, as if in shock, some were on the floor, blood splattered and making soft sounds. Illya started towards one man, then Napoleon caught his arm and pointed.
"Oh, no..." Illya murmured at the sight of Mark sitting against a wall, holding a bloodied body in his arms. He holstered his weapon and went directly to the British agent and squatted before him, but it was as if the man couldn't see him, couldn't see anything beyond the body he held close to his chest.
"Mark?" The blood-stained face looked in Napoleon's direction, but it was as if Mark had never seen the man before. "Mark, what happened?"
"Dunno, mate, we were just having a nosh when the alarms sounded. We came out... April never saw what hit her... took her down in cold blood. They have him, Napoleon." Mark's voice was dead calm, but all the while he kept gently rocking the body in his arms.
"Who, Mark?" Illya stood to survey the damage. There were large black streaks on the walls spoke to him that some sort of incendiary device had been used. In other spots, long creases told him the tracks that bullets had made. The air was breathable, but still carried a sharp tang to it. Some of the ceiling fixtures hung down, dangling from electrical wires and sent shadows dancing across the walls.
"Waverly... they have Waverly," Mark mumbled. "They took him and we couldn't stop them."
Napoleon gestured and moved a few steps away. Illya followed, pulling and checking his weapon as he moved, keeping instinctively close to the brunet until Napoleon grimaced at him. "I've heard of togetherness, Illya, but there's also something called personal space. What are you doing?"
"I'm locking you up someplace safe."
"What? Why?"
"As of this moment, you're the temporary head of UNCLE North America and I don't know that there aren't still enemy agents in the building. Until I get you settled in the emergency bunker under guard, I'm not leaving your side."
"Illya, if I'm Section One, then you have just been put in charge of Section Two. You have a major breach on your hands; your duty is to the organization, not to me."
"My duty is to you, Napoleon, as of this moment, you are the organization." Illya knelt again by Mark. "Mark, can you move? Are you injured?"
"I don't think so, but April..."
"She doesn't need you right now, Mark, I do. Can you function?"
"I... I don't..." He took a deep breath. "Yes, I can."
"Excellent. We need to get these men down to Medical and then get a damage report. I need to know what is functioning and I need communications back up as soon as possible. Where did they breach our security, how long ago and was Waverly their only intended target or did they take him because an opportunity presented itself? Can you do that, Mark?"
Mark carefully placed the body in his arms down on the floor and smoothed the dark hair with a trembling hand. "Yes, sir." He got awkwardly to his feet and offered Illya a weak smile.
"Good man." Illya patted his shoulder. "Come on, Napoleon." Illya grabbed his arm and started towards the stairwell. "It's time we tucked you in."
The war room was nothing more than a bunker buried as deeply into the bedrock as was feasible in this part of the city. It was fully stocked to survive a nuclear blast and to Illya's way of thinking, the best spot for Napoleon. He could run the organization from there and do it without Illya having to worry about him.
As they moved through HQ, parts of it showed visible signs of the attack; other parts looked as normal as a day in spring. The path THRUSH took would be easy for Mark to follow. The deeper they went, the less the signs of intrusion. It was apparent, at least initially, that it might have been Waverly they were after all along. That made sense.
"Simpson, Hawkins!" Illya flagged down two Section Two agents as they moved by. The men approached, obviously still stunned by the attack. "Mr. Solo is now head of UNCLE, guard him with your lives or I'll see to that they won't be worth living. Do you understand me?"
Both men showed the good common sense to nod to him.
"Where are you going, Illya?" Napoleon still seemed to be trying to get his bearings.
"Communications to see what the damage is and if we can get a message out yet. Also to see what we can pick up from THRUSH. They should be crowing like a rooster right about now."
"I should go..."
"You need to stay here until we give you an all clear. You have a job to do, Napoleon; let me do mine."
Illya came to rue those words. At first, it had been easy because it was routine. The procedure was written out step by step. He knew what areas had to be secured and in what sequence. He knew how to initiate protocol with the other offices. What wasn't written out was how to get people to listen to him. He'd thought the old prejudices were just that, old and forgotten and that he'd proven himself a good agent to everyone. Suddenly he was being looked at with suspicion.
"All I'm saying is that I got a look at one of the bombs that didn't go off and it was Soviet technology..."
Coming up on that conversation had been a real eye opener for Illya. He cleared his throat and two agents that he'd thought of as at least passing acquaintances took on a different aspect to him.
"Is there a problem, Mr. Brown, Mr. Morando?"
"No, we were just discussing the unexploded device."
"So I heard... I think perhaps your time would be better spent pursuing your duties than engaging in idle speculation, don't you?"
Brown's face had flared red and Illya read the message there, No longer a co-worker, now an obstacle to be tackled'
This had been one part of the job he hadn't thought about. He'd assumed his fellow agents would follow him as they had Napoleon. He'd been on routine training missions, rescue and raiding parties with his fellow agents and they'd obeyed his orders without question... no, they'd obeyed Napoleon's orders. His were merely back-up instructions; Napoleon was always the one in charge. Illya found a quiet corner and swallowed that bitter pill. He'd thought the title alone would be enough to make these people accept him as leader.
"Mr. Kuryakin?" An agent ran up to him, young and obviously overwhelmed.
"Yes, what is it?"
"We've got a message, sir; THRUSH is sending its demands."
"Waverly's policy was to never pay a ransom. Let's go see what the new Section One has to say about that."
"No negotiating with extortionists, Waverly was clear." Napoleon looked a hundred years old. He sat at the head of the conference table and regarded his agents with weary eyes.
"You're wrong," Illya said, ignoring a flash of annoyance on Napoleon's face. He'd never have corrected Waverly, but this was different, this was Napoleon and he was used to Illya's bluntness.
"Explain yourself, Mr. Kuryakin." Illya chalked up the tightness of Napoleon's tone to tiredness. After all, if Illya was overwhelmed, Napoleon's burden must been twice as heavy.
"Waverly said he'd never negotiate for an agent. A Section One is entirely different. We owe it to the organization to at least go through the motions of negotiating. Plus it would give us time to try to triangulate a position, possibly get a strike force in place. If it was anyone else, they'd probably already be dead, but this is Waverly and he's a clever old fox. He might still be alive."
After a long moment, Napoleon nodded. "Very well, send out a message to THRUSH. Ask them for their demands and their timetable. You're excused." As everyone got up to leave, Napoleon added. "Mr. Kuryakin, a moment of your time?"
Illya watched the agents file out and he turned to his partner. "Yes, Napoleon?"
"Never correct me in front of my men, Mr. Kuryakin." The words carried an ominous tone. "You do that again and I will bust you so far down the chain, it will be the new millennium before you ever see the light of day again; do you understand me?"
"But..."
"I said, do you understand me, Mr. Kuryakin?"
An explosion of words came to mind, but Illya swallowed them and muttered a tight, "Yes, sir. Will that be all, sir?"
"Dismissed."
Illya knew his face was beet red and he was mad enough to take on all of THRUSH at the moment. He'd never thought Napoleon would pull rank on him like this, but apparently the job had gone to his head. Evidently, Napoleon had taken the title of Lord of the Manor to heart and Illya was now head bottle washer.
Before his temper got the better of him, he retreated to the Communications Room and awaited THRUSH's response. Or he tried to. The distractions were overwhelming and he was fighting the feeling that there was something urgent that he was overlooking. Every time he tried to stand still for just a moment and focus his thoughts, he was interrupted by a new task, a new responsibility. Even though UNCLE HQ had been breached, there were still agents in the field who needed to report in, or needed instructions. They didn't know about Waverly being gone and Illya wasn't going to tell them. He acted much as he did on a regular day, dispensing assignments and orders as if they were coming from Napoleon and not himself.
Hours passed before he actually made it from the war room to his office to Communications. There, the chaos was even worse as other HQs and field offices signed in, requesting services, offering help. And all the time, Illya kept from looking over his shoulder, looking for Napoleon, yearning for his presence and insightful comments.
Most people dismissed Napoleon as merely lucky, but Illya knew a brilliant mind hid behind that Byrlcreemed hair and dark eyes. Napoleon worked hard hide his intelligence and keen sense of strategy. It was his greatest asset, as THRUSH dismissed Napoleon as merely Waverly's lap dog. Not so, and now Illya found himself struggling to keep afloat with his partner's guidance.
Napoleon moved quickly, able to second guess his opponent. Illya was more of a plodder, needing time to take that step. Most people saw him as the most physical of the two, the one to more quickly react, but, in fact, he was the thinker - it was his scientific nature; he didn't want to hope he knew the outcome, he wanted it predicted before he took the first step. The fact that he wasn't able to do that now left him almost as unbalanced and dazed as the men in that first corridor were. He couldn't think, wasn't permitted to; he could merely react.
"We have it, sir." The voice was soft, easing him out of his thoughts and back to the multiple tasks at hand. Illya smiled briefly at the young woman, a tech whose name he didn't even know.
"According to this, he's being held not far from Washington DC city limits."
"Excellent work. Alert the Washington office and have them get ready to move. Have you told Mr. Solo?"
"No, sir."
Illya sighed and toggled on the intercom.
"Solo."
Illya kept him voice carefully neutral, the way it would have been if he was addressing Waverly, not his partner. "Mr. Solo, we have Waverly's coordinates."
"Excellent, organize your forces and report immediately to me. And I want our local men to do it. I'm not going to trust something this sensitive to another office. "
Any protest Illya was likely to make was squashed by the harshness of Napoleon's voice. It made no sense to send their men in when the local forces would know the area better. And these were UNCLE agents, trained as well as the New York ones. Instead, he merely clenched his fist and said, "Yes, sir."
Illya closed the channel and rubbed his eyes. They felt full of grit and his face was as scratchy as sandpaper. He needed a shower and a shave and wondered when he would get the chance at either. Or even a hot meal would be a welcomed break. The last sandwich he washed down with old coffee seemed days ago.
"Is there something I can get you, Mr. Kuryakin?" The tech's voice was soft, comforting.
"No, I'm fine, thank you." Illya gathered his strength and smiled at her. "Would you please have Agents Brown, Rogers, and Williamson report to Conference Room Five?"
He watched each of the men come into the room and sit as far as possible from him, maintaining a careful distance. That was fine. That was to be expected he supposed. It was that just right now, he'd have wept for joy at even an inkling of camaraderie from them.
"We've located where they are holding Mr. Waverly. I need the three of you to lead teams of five of your best men in. I'll bring up the fourth team....
"No, you won't." Illya glanced over at Solo standing by the door, Simpson and Hawkins on either side of him - at least someone was still listening to him. Solo was freshly showered and shaved and wore a clean suit. Illya hadn't even had the chance to piss; he still wore the same rumpled suit he'd hastily thrown on two... or was it three days ago? He couldn't even tell now. But, of course, Waverly was always perfectly groomed; it only made sense that the ever-fashion conscious Solo would be as well. Illya didn't even bother to stop and wonder when his partner had gone from being Napoleon to Solo; he was too tired to worry about it.
"I'm sorry?" He was careful to make it sound like more an inquiry than accusation.
"You're not going out into the field, Mr. Kuryakin. We have a half dozen unexploded devices still in the building and that's one of your fields of expertise, last I heard. I want you to head the team to clear them."
"They've all been safely removed and stored for dismantling as is standard protocol in this situation. I'd be of more benefit in the field." It was unwise to argue with Solo, for he was destined to win, but Illya's stubbornness dictated that he had to at least make a token effort. "Sir."
"You are needed here! No field work!" Napoleon snapped and all the other agents stared at him. Illya could smell Scotch on Solo's breath and he resisted making a crack as Solo continued, "Send Mark out."
"He's just lost his partner."
"Yet it's fine for you to go out alone."
"I won't be alone, and my partner isn't dead... just... elevated."
"Don't defy me, Illya, not now." Napoleon turned and stalked from the room.
"Wouldn't dream of it, sir," Illya muttered softly, watched him leave and then spoke to Brown directly. "Who would you recommend in my stead, Mr. Brown?"
Brown was obviously surprised. "Um, Heath is good in a bind, sir. He's a little inexperienced, but I think he could handle a follow up team."
"If you have confidence in him, then so will I. Thank you and dismissed."
Brown hung back after the other agents left, watching Illya closely. "Is there something wrong, Mr. Brown?" Illya was too weary for much more than that.
"Sir, I know you and I will probably never be friends, but I always thought you and Mr. Solo were... very close."
"Times of stress make men react in ways that we can't predict, Mr. Brown. In some cases, the stress will result in acts of great courage and heroism. Other times, it brings forth previous undetected weaknesses. Mr. Solo is under considerable pressure at the moment and is having to deal with the very real prospect of being totally in charge of our organization. Now go, the future of UNCLE may well rest upon your shoulders."
"I won't let you down, sir."
"I know you won't. And you are correct; you and I will quite probably never be friends, but as long as we wear these badges, we will forever be colleagues."
Wearily, he watched Brown walk from the room and pull what little energy left in the room out with him. Part of him could understand Solo's very human reaction to suddenly having so much responsibility thrust upon him; another part of him longed for the strength Solo regularly gave him, by way of an encouraging word, an appropriately timed grin, or comment. He felt like it was his first day with UNCLE all over again.
The bomb squad had carefully retrieved and disarmed a dozen bombs. They were puzzlement to Illya. They were Soviet technology and design, but nothing new. He knew these devices intimately as he'd demonstrated on these particular styles of bombs whenever he taught his explosives class. And they were doggedly reliable. He used them because he knew he could depend upon them to not jump the gun and go off prematurely. Why would THRUSH be using these?
His communicator signaled and he brought it to his lips. "Kuryakin."
"No luck, sir," Brown's distorted voice answered. "He was here, but he's gone now. We can still smell that tobacco he likes to smoke and we found some ash."
"Any signs of violence?"
"No, sir, no signs of really anything, aside from the tobacco," Brown's voice wavered. "Sir?"
"Yes?"
"I'm serious; there are no signs at all of anyone being here... outside of the ash."
"Curious. Everyone is okay?"
"Everyone is fine. One agent broke his arm when he tripped over a threshold, but that was it."
"Come home, Mr. Brown. Kuryakin out." A blare announced that the last device was going to blow and Illya set his protective headgear in place. This was getting stranger by the minute.
Once he was certain that all was safe, Illya walked back to the war room. Normally, he would have just entered, but now he knocked and waited for Solo's, "Enter."
Solo looked up from a mass of paperwork.
"I'm sorry to report that the raiding parties are reporting back empty handed. The only indication that Waverly had been there was his pipe tobacco. The last of the unexploded devices have disposed of, sir."
"Good, excellent, dismissed."
Illya was desperate to ask his opinion, for some sense of direction, but pride kept his tongue still. He'd have asked his former partner; he'd have asked Mr. Waverly; he would not ask this man. Instead he turned and walked out.
He was leaning over a console when a cup of coffee was suddenly thrust into his view. For a moment, his heart jumped, and then fell when he saw the Communications tech standing there.
"I'm sorry to bother you, but you looked like you could use something. I brought you a sandwich too."
He smiled at her and nodded. "Yes, thank you, Miss...?"
"Lacey Sheffield. I was just transferred in from London."
"Beautiful city, I know it well. I attended school in England." For a moment, just to think of something that wasn't UNCLE was a luxury. Perhaps this was why Napoleon flirted constantly, to give his mind a momentary break. He ate the sandwich without any enthusiasm and took a large swallow of coffee.
"But a bit dreary at times. I like New York, what little I've seen of it. I've only been here about a week," Sheffield said, a little misty eyed.
"I'd be happy to show you around some time, one immigrant to another."
She smiled. "That sounds nice." She walked from the room as Brown was entering. He was still wearing the dark turtleneck and pants of the raiding party.
"We tied everything up and I left two men posted there, just in case anyone came back." There was an unanswered question in his voice.
"Good work... but?"
"I'm still confused, sir, there were no real sign that THRUSH had been there at all, yet that triangulated signal was clear as day. How could they just up and move everything and not leave a single trace behind? And why? It's not like we don't know they have Waverly. Why clean everything up?"
"Why did so many of the devices left around UNCLE HQ fail? There was absolutely no reason for it."
"There's something else, sir." Brown's voice fell as if he was afraid of being overheard.
"Yes?" Illya matched the tone.
"I just got back from Medical."
"And?"
"If we just had a major assault of HQ, why aren't there more casualties? And why haven't we picked up any chatter from THRUSH Central? I mean, I'm not questioning your authority, sir, but wouldn't they have taken him directly there and not held him at a small field office?"
"One would have thought." Another agent came in and offered Illya a clipboard. Illya recognized him as an agent he knew from Germany. It was wonderful to see a friendly face. "Luther, when did you transfer in?"
"Pulled it two weeks ago, still have no idea why. Disciplinary, I supposed. Guess the Old Man didn't like the way I parted my hair." He indicated the clipboard. "So, you can see, aside from some smoke damage, Del Floria's is fine. It was empty at the time of the attack. Del had been called away."
"That's convenient and a just a little suspicious," Brown muttered and Illya found himself nodding in agreement.
He read the report, absentmindedly toying with the ring on his left hand, spinning it round with one finger.
"That's it," Sheffield suddenly shouted, grabbing his hand.
Illya reacted instinctively and nearly slammed her to the table before catching himself. "A word of warning, Miss Sheffield - never surprise an agent." He nodded to both Brown and Luther, who were holstering their weapons.
"I'm sorry; I just had a brain storm!"
"What?"
"Your ring." She grabbed his left hand and held it up.
"What about it?"
"Waverly's ring!"
"Yes?"
"Would he have put one on if he thought capture was imminent?"
"If there was time." Illya scribbled his signature on the report.
"They came in through Del Floria's -"
"And the employee's entrance was also breached. That's how Nap... Mr. Solo and I came in."
"Sir, there was time enough to have a barn dance!" She stopped and thought for a moment. "Do they still have barn dances here or is that just something you read in books?"
"No idea," Illya answered. "Of course, they could have also come through Waverly's private entrance or captured him on his way out."
"But we don't know, do we? Haven't let us up on that level, have they?" Luther said, taking the clipboard back.
"Haven't they?" Illya was startled. "I would have thought that's where the investigation would have started."
"The Old Man, Mr. Solo, I mean, assigned Mark Slate to it and he posted Sections Threes at the all the stairwells and elevators. Word from Section One, Number One - no one goes past this floor."
"What? That makes no sense."
Luther shrugged. "He said Mark and Section Three were to take care of it because it was in house."
Illya sighed and looked over at the Communications tech. "What about Waverly's ring?"
"It emits a signal. If I can boost the equipment enough, we might be able to use it as a tracking device. It wouldn't be really long reaching, but it would be enough for the immediate area. Maybe it would give us a hint which way to head next."
"At this point, that is music to my ears." He paused. "Luther, do I remember you had some background in communications?"
"Started out there." He grinned at the woman. "You need a hand?"
"Absolutely."
"Brown... what is your first name?"
"Alvin... but I prefer Al."
"All right, Al, you're with me."
"No, absolutely not." Solo crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair, stopping just short of putting his feet up on the table.
"Why?" Illya leaned forward, braced on the table by clenched fists.
"The whole top floor is in a state of near collapse. Until we can get our own people in to clear it, it's off limits. I won't risk anyone by ordering them up there."
"I'm volunteering..."
"And the answer is still no. I'm not taking volunteers, Mr. Kuryakin." Solo cut him off as if he was a rambling junior agent. "The matter is closed and this discussion is finished." He glanced over at the two agents Illya had assigned him. "Would you gentlemen escort these agents out?"
"I know the way," Illya snapped and strode out, pushing roughly past the agents.
"What was that all about?" Brown asked as soon as they cleared the doors.
"I don't know. Mr. Solo is acting very un-Napoleon like."
"I agree, but I meant with the two Section Two guys."
"What? Oh, I put tracers on them, since I couldn't get close enough to get one on Mr. Solo. They are sticking to him like glue and wherever he goes, they follow." Illya smiled tightly. "That way we can keep an eye on him, just in case."
"Just in case of what?"
"The unknown." Illya tapped his forehead and winked. Brown gave him a grin. Illya's communicator signaled and he opened it as they walked. "Kuryakin."
"Mr. Kuryakin, I think you might want to see this." Sheffield's voice sounded anxious.
"We're on our way." Illya rubbed an eye. This whole thing had come on the heels of five other assignments, a couple solo missions and one hell-to-pay prisoner transfer. He'd been stretched to his limit when Waverly had given him a day off. Now all of this and he felt ready to drop in his traces.
"If this day gets any weirder, I'm quitting," Brown muttered as they walked.
"You can't quit UNCLE, slaves have to be sold."
"Was that a joke, sir?"
"A meager attempt at one and unfortunately the best I can attempt at the present."
"I didn't know you told jokes."
Illya's answer was a sly smile. "I suspect there are a great many things you don't know about me, Al." They walked into the Communications Room and Illya looked around. Only Sheffield and Luther were there. "Where is everyone else?"
Sheffield made a gesture with one hand. "I sent them away. I didn't want them to be here for this. Ready?"
"Yes." Illya leaned over her shoulder, her hair softly tickling his face. "What is it?"
"With Luther's help, we got the instrumentation rewired... did you know we studied at the same school? And that we actually have a third cousin twice removed in common?"
"Miss Sheffield, the signal?" Illya smiled slightly at her exuberance.
"Oh, so we got everything recalibrated and it picked up a signal."
"Excellent, where is it?"
She pointed straight up. "That way, about three floors above our heads."
"Waverly's office?" Illya asked. "Of course, that would make sense; he has other rings up there."
"But they wouldn't register unless he activated them..."
"But that would mean..." Brown started. "No... Waverly's there?"
"Not only that, but the minute you left the war room, the tracers you set started to move. They're in Waverly's office as well."
"What the hell is going on, Ill... sir?" Luther demanded.
"No idea, but I do know one way to find out. It's time we go take a look, with or without Mr. Solo's cooperation."
"We're going to take out our own men?" Brown's voice was tinged with curiosity.
"Yes," Illya said with a feral grin. "If need be."
"You're right, sir, there are a lot of things I don't know about you. You're crazy."
"That has been pointed out a time or two, yes." Illya looked over at Brown and sighed. "Al, I will not order you to do this."
"You don't have to."
"Luther, are you game?"
"Sure, where can they send me next? The Antarctic?"
"And it might end badly for you, Al."
"Yeah, well, being a field agent ain't all it's cracked up to be." He stopped and shook his head. "Besides, I think it's gonna be worse for you."
Illya nodded. "Most assuredly, but think of this as opposed to breaching orders as a act of pure flamboyance of thought."
"Let's do it," Brown grinned, slapping his hands together. "At least I'll have something to tell the grandkids."
Illya walked up to the elevator and pressed a button.
"Elevators are off limit, sir." The Section Three agent approached him, his manner firm, but not aggressive.
"Do you know who I am?" Illya cocked his head at the man, carefully keeping his expression neutral.
"Yes, sir."
"Then you should know never to stand this close to me." Illya's movement was subtle and the man crumpled to the floor. He glanced around and gestured the other two agents inside. Suddenly there was a third person moving and Sheffield was with them.
"No, I won't take responsibility for you as well, Miss Sheffield." Illya said as he hit the door close button.
"I'm not asking you to. Consider it the actions of a mad Englishwoman."
Illya smiled, the first one he'd really felt in too long. "All right, Lacey. Do you have a weapon?"
"Boosted it off a Section Three guy I ran into down the hall and, for the record, yes, I can shoot."
"I would never have thought to ask."
"Wouldn't emergency protocol have shut all the elevators down?" Luther asked as Illya pressed the button for Waverly's floor. "Or have I been taking the stairs the last three days for no reason?"
"Yes, normally, but I have a sense things are far from normal," Illya said, feeling that the day was about to get much worse as the elevator started to move.
The elevator door opened and Sheffield stepped out, looking a little lost and confused. Immediately there were two Section Three agents beside her.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but this is a restricted area."
"I'm just in from London... this isn't the canteen?"
The muffled chuff of Illya's gun shooting sleep darts was barely audible. The agents collapsed and they were immediately dragged into the elevator.
"What now?" Luther asked.
"I approach Waverly's office, and his secretary, assuming she is there, will react and we need to count on the element of surprise. Luther, have you been up here yet?"
"Only once two weeks ago to meet Waverly and that was at lunchtime," Luther answered, checking his weapon.
"That means his regular secretary has probably not seen you," Brown said and Illya nodded.
"I agree. Luther, it's up to you."
Nodding to Illya, Luther headed for Waverly's office. The secretary glanced up at him and frowned.
"May I help you, sir?"
"Mr. Waverly sent for me."
"He did?"
"Well, he will, eventually," Illya murmured into her ear and grabbed her hand as it headed for the security switch. "None of that now. I'd hate to have to shoot you." He passed her over to Sheffield and smiled sweetly at her. "But she will have no qualms what so ever."
Illya holstered his P.38. "If you gentlemen wish to remain out here, I will understand..."
"Beside you every step of the way, sir." Brown smiled at him. "And to think two days ago I questioned your dedication and here I am prepared to follow you into the dragon's lair."
Illya patted him on the shoulder, then stepped forward and the door slid open. Everything was as it should be, including Waverly sitting at his desk and Solo, Mark, and April at the conference table.
"Isn't this cozy?" Illya said to Brown and Luther.
"I'm guessing the correct phrase would be 'the jig is up'." Solo said, with a smile and a raised glass. "Honestly, Illya, I am amazed it took you this long."
"Why, mate, you won the pool," Mark said, grinning. "I should have know never to take that bet."
Illya ignored them and walked directly to Waverly.
"Very good, young man. I was dubious that you would figure this out, but Mr. Solo assured me otherwise." Waverly was packing his pipe. "Apparently he was correct."
"What the hell is going on... sir?" Brown looked from Waverly to Illya and back.
"War games, Mr. Brown, and, apparently, Section Two was the defending party."
"Would have been nice if they'd given us a heads up." Luther walked to the still-open door and gestured to Sheffield. She came in a moment later and gasped.
"You're here... and alive."
"So it would seem, Miss Sheffield," Illya said tightly as she came to his side.
"The primary goal was to see how the men would react to you being placed in charge, as well as seeing how you would handle to having to respond to Mr. Solo as your commander in chief, as it were."
"I don't believe this!" Brown muttered, crossing his arms. "All of this was just a dog and pony show? Because you didn't trust us enough to think that we would follow Illya... Mr. Kuryakin?"
"I think I see now," Illya said, softly. "And, Al, Luther, Lacey, my apologies, you weren't being tested. I was. After all these years, my loyalty, it would seem, is still in doubt."
"It's not that, Illya..." Solo interrupted and then fell silent at the glare the Russian shot in his direction.
"We also had to see if you had grown so close to Mr. Solo that it would be impossible for you to respond to him in a strictly professional manner, even at his worst." Mr. Waverly stood and offered his hand. "Congratulations, Mr. Kuryakin, you passed with flying colors." He looked down at the ID card and then at the gun that was carefully placed on the table.
"You'll have my letter of resignation in the morning, sir." Illya turned and then paused. "If you need a new partner, Mr. Solo, I suggest you talk with Mr. Brown. He's a good agent and one whose loyalty won't need to be tested."
He started out and saw April stand to come after him. Solo caught her arm and shook his head. "Leave him a bit, April. He needs to cool off." He sighed. "Well, that went about as well as I expected." The door sliding shut cut off anyone's response.
Illya stood on the porch of his parent's dacha, watching the wind blow through the tall grass, making it dance, much as the waves moved across the surface of the ocean. When his parents had announced their intention to buy this dacha, Illya had protested as loudly as any of his siblings. It was too far out of town, there were no neighbors nearby, it was hard to access - all perfectly good reason to not go through with the purchase and all of them falling upon deaf ears. His parents had bought it, moved in lock, stock, and barrel, and made it home. Illya visited upon occasion, not nearly as much as his brothers and sisters, and now he knew why his parents had fallen in love with the place.
The isolation that seemed a death sentence to the younger people was balm upon the stressed nerves for the older adults. Granted Illya was just a year older than his closest sibling, he felt miles removed from her, old beyond his years.
The wind caught his hair, brushing it with a careless gesture. He took a long drink from the bottle he held and continued to watch the grass, determined to not think about things... determined to keep his mind blank. Too bad no one had mentioned it to his heart. He leaned against the post, fighting to keep one certain name from intruding upon his thoughts and memories.
"Illuysha?" Only his mother called him that anymore. He glanced over at the front door as she came out, a shawl wrapped around her slender form to prevent the cool night air from creeping in. "Aren't you cold, my little one?"
"No, Mama." He had his anger and indignity to keep him warm. He thought back upon that moment when he found the one person he trusted more than anyone else to be honest had lied to him and humiliated him, and his temper flared, just as strong as it had in Waverly's office, on his way home from headquarters and on the taxi ride to the airport. He let that fury carry him back to his homeland and it still burned in his belly like a furnace. And the vodka didn't hurt either.
She rested a hand on his cheek, playing with his whiskers. He'd somehow not found the energy or desire to shave since leaving the States. In the week he'd been here, his beard had grown out, and was at the scruffy stage. No amount of grooming would make it behave at the moment; not that he'd felt inclined to even attempt it.
"You're freezing." She moved to stand behind him and wrap her shawl around his shoulders as well. He wasn't much taller than she was and her chin rested comfortably on his shoulder, her hands on his waist. "Enough brooding out here for tonight, I think. You need to go up and get some rest. You haven't even slept properly since you've been here."
He'd have argued with her, except she was right. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind raced back to Waverly's office, to Napoleon's mocking grin. He'd wake up trembling in anger, insults frozen on his lips. Illya smiled ruefully as he took another swig. He wondered what Napoleon's face had looked like when he walked into Illya's apartment and found him gone... he wondered if Napoleon even knew he'd left. Now awash in his Section One duties and responsibilities, Napoleon quite probably hadn't quite gotten around to that issue yet. Well, no matter, the KGB would welcome him back with open arms. Even now he could sense them, watching, waiting to see if this was a personal visit or something more. He started to take another swig from the bottle.
"I think enough drink as well." Yuliya pushed the bottle from his lips. "You will come in now and sleep and tomorrow you will share this great unspoken burden of yours with your papa."
"Papa's a drunken fool." He spoke without realizing it, the vodka making his tongue loose.
"Whose son is determined to follow in his footsteps." She shoved him away and he shivered in the sudden loss of heat, catching himself on the post to keep from falling. "And if you ever speak of your papa like that again, I shall beat you myself, do you understand me, Illya Nichovetch?"
"Yes, Mama." Illya knew when not to argue with his mother. She was smaller and older than him, but she was still a force to be reckoned with and he had the scars to prove it.
"Inside, now!" She pointed and he nodded.
Illya plodded back into the house, pausing to return the vodka bottle to the freezer. He looked at the contents of the refrigerator and shut the door without picking anything. Foods that he dreamt of back in New York held no interest for him now that he had ready access to them. He was losing weight and he really didn't care. The government here didn't want his body as much as his mind. And that was still, sadly, very much intact.
He wearily climbed the three stories to his room and stripped off, tossing his pants, shirt and underwear onto a nearby chair. He slid into the icy cold sheets, welcoming the shock that it sent through him. He sighed, just one of a thousand he'd heaved that day and stretched out on his stomach, head resting on his arms. If he could just get his brain to disengage for a few minutes, perhaps he could sleep.
He didn't jump at the warm hand on his back, although he should have. His senses were so dulled that his mother, for he could now smell her perfume, had managed to come into the room and sit on the bed beside him without him even knowing it.
Half of him wanted to push her away, demanding that she leave him. The smarter half kept the other quiet as the hand moved in slow circles. A voice started to sing softly - some big, bad enforcement agent he was; his mama was singing him to sleep.
Illya's dignity tried to protest; it really wanted to, but like the rest of him, it was calmed, seduced into a lull and, without realizing it, into sleep.
And he woke, tears of rage and humiliation on his cheeks, only to feel that same familiar hand, to hear a familiar voice singing those old familiar songs, and he drifted back off. He repeated this pattern again and again, until around dawn, his mind finally surrendered and he fell into a deep dreamless sleep.
He woke early afternoon by his reckoning and sat up in bed, stretching. The day was cool, but clear and he grabbed a robe he'd borrowed from Mykyta's closet to make his way to the bathroom. It was nice to not have to fight for hot water and the shower felt good. He almost broke down and shaved, but he didn't. He merely pulled a comb through the tangles in his hair and shuffled back to his bedroom.
That's when Illya noticed his clothes were gone...
When he left New York, he paused just long enough to grab his shaving kit and all the money he had stashed away in various spots in the apartment. Everything else he could replace or do without. Once he'd hit Finland, he'd called his bank in New York and had his savings transferred to an account he'd set up in Switzerland some time earlier. He wasn't rich by American standards, but was practically one of the wealthy elite in the USSR. He had more than enough to tide him over until he was ready to officially report back to Moscow.
Left in place of his pants and shirt was a pair of Mykyta's pants and one of his shirts and some underwear. At Illya's heaviest, his youngest brother's clothes were two sizes too big. They hung on him. The underwear was a lost cause, so he set it aside. He rolled up the pants cuffs and cinched the waist in as best he could with his belt. The shirt swam on him, but it was clean and smelled better than the one he'd taken off. He pulled on the socks and padded downstairs, looking very much like a little boy playing dress up in his father's clothes.
He headed to the kitchen more out of habit than a desire to eat. True to form, his mother was at the stove cooking; she was always cooking. His siblings would arrive soon; he was sure she'd gotten the word out that he was home and they were always ready for a visit. Perhaps they would remind him of the good times he'd left here.
"Sit and eat."
Illya only looked at the food-laden plate with no enthusiasm. "I'm not hungry."
"I did not ask if you were hungry. I said eat. We are not wealthy people, Illya Nichovetch, and we do not waste food. Eat."
"I'm not hungry," he repeated with just an edge of defiance in his voice.
He heard the slap before he really felt it. One more reason to keep the beard, he thought, just before the sting of the blow made his eyes water.
"You will sit and you will eat. You will not defy me." His mother stared daggers at him and for a moment he was tempted to pull out his wallet and throw a handful of money down before storming out. But he'd been raised a Soviet and Soviet children obeyed their parents before anyone else. "Now sit and eat!"
He sat. And he ate, slowly, methodically, until his plate was empty. The food started as ash in his mouth, but he reluctantly had to admit about halfway through he was enjoying the taste of real home cooking again. Still he kept his pace maddeningly slow and reticent, his stubbornness refuse to let a glimmer of enjoyment escape.
"Finished?"
"Yes, Mama." The plate was removed, but he refused to meet her eyes.
"Now go in and talk to your father about this burden you carry. You will treat him with the dignity and the respect that being your father demands. And then you come back here." She held up a pair of scissors. "Your hair is much too long." Illya clamped his jaws tight, determined to remain silent. "Am I clear, Illya Nichovetch?"
"Why are you treating me like a child?" The words suddenly burst from him and he half expected another slap.
"Because you insist upon acting like one. Behave like a man and I will treat you as one." She pointed. "Now go!"
His father was where he usually was, sitting at his desk, scratching away on paper, writing his memoirs. Never mind that they were ninety percent fiction at this point. Between this and gardening, it kept his days happily occupied. An old war horse able to live out his remaining days in peace and quiet. Illya wondered if he'd ever get that opportunity.
"Illya Nichovetch," his father said as he entered. "You and your mother have had a disagreement, I see."
"How can you tell?"
"It was almost predestined." Nicholas tapped his own cheek. "You have always been a stubborn child."
"I'm not a child!"
"You are to me, boy!" His father was on his feet, towering over him, six foot five and still a force to be reckoned with, even at this age. "You think just because I sit in here with my papers, I'm blind? I've seen you moping around here, feeling sorry for yourself, letting your mother worry and you without regard for her feelings. Not sleeping, not eating, you're pathetic! And to think you call yourself a Kuryakin."
"You don't know!"
"And whose fault is that? We have been right here for you, but you treat us as if we were intruders in our own home. Your pride and your stubbornness will be the death of you, Illya Nichovetch."
"It wasn't fair! It wasn't right!"
"What wasn't fair, Illya Nichovetch?" Illya didn't notice the change in his father's tone, from authoritative to coaxing.
"They tested me, my loyalty." And then, without meaning to, the story spilled out and Illya finally confronted the anger, the humiliation, and the frustration that had haunted him for the past week, stopping when the words became too heard to speak, even in Russian, for he spoke only that here.
"That's it? This is what has caused you such distress?" his father asked when Illya had finally run out of words and of energy. "How many times have you been tested in your life, Illya Nichovetch? By your professors or by your own government?"
"UNCLE is different... or so I thought!"
"UNCLE perhaps responds to different causes, but at the end of the day, it is still run by, for, and with the blessings of the government. The names may vary, the goals may differ, but their purpose is still the same."
"But America--"
"Isn't the USSR; yes, I know that. There you have freedom that we only dream of here. There you speak and protest openly everything which we fear to even whisper about. To live and breathe freely, but you still must pay the piper." His father shook his head. "And you have taken your wounded pride and come back home to hide. The USSR's crowning achievement, only to end like this... pitiful."
Illya turned from him, unable to think of a single comment, insult or blasting rejoinder that wouldn't get him cuffed around the ears. "This was different! I trusted UNCLE... I trusted Napoleon and he played me like a fool."
"Did you ever stop to think, perhaps for just an instant, that he was being told to do things he didn't agree or approve of?"
"Not Napoleon."
"Yes, even Napoleon. No matter what you might think or believe, Illya Nichovetch, your Napoleon is still just a man." His father stopped and suddenly dragged Illya into a rough embrace. Into one ear, he murmured, "My son, you've always been stubborn, but you are also smart. Some would say too smart for your own good. And I say to that - never! Your intelligence has allowed you see and do things that I, a regular citizen, will never be permitted to experience. Your intelligence allows you to escape crushing despair. You have known freedom of thought and freedom of will; are you prepared to give all that up for your foolish pride?" He held Illya at arm's length and smiled at him.
"It isn't that easy, Papa, I've resigned. It's not a matter of if. That world is closed to me now."
"Well, not exactly closed... partner."
It took Illya nearly thirty seconds to register that it was indeed Napoleon's voice he'd heard, speaking in English, and when he turned and saw the American, it was as if he'd never seen him before in his life.
"Christ, do I look as bad as you do?" Napoleon asked in Russian and offered Illya a hesitant smile, so unlike his usual confident one. There were dark circles under Napoleon's eyes and his hair was mussed and wild looking. He looked as tired as Illya felt.
"Alas, Mr. Solo, you do." Nicholas returned to his desk and lifted a sheet. "Did I ever tell you about the time I singlehandedly defeated Goering on the front?"
Napoleon never stopped watching Illya. "No, sir, you haven't."
"Come, sit," Nicholas gestured to a chair. "I think his mama has plans for that one."
Illya turned on his heel and walked from the room, his mind racing in more directions that his skull could accommodate. What was Napoleon doing here? How? He looked towards the study, listening to his father's voice drone on.
Certainly, the old man was right that Illya had been permitted more freedom than most people his age and he knew that UNCLE had been a big part of that, but it still burned him that he'd been played like that. And he had known freedom before them; he didn't need UNCLE for that. He stopped in the hall, debating upon a course of action.
"I'm ready for you, Illyusha," his mother called and Illya didn't even wonder how she knew he was standing there. She just always seemed to know, just like when he'd been a child.
He walked into the kitchen and she held up a straight razor. "That has to go! Do you do it or do I?" He held out his hand and headed to the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, he was clean shaven and as tempting as it was to lock the door and crawl out the window, he knew there would be hell to pay when his mother found him.
She was sitting and sipping a cup of tea as he entered the kitchen. Immediately she was on her feet, pointing to a chair that sat on top of a sheet.
Wordless, he sat and sighed as she tucked a second sheet around his neck. Carefully and methodically she combed out the tangles and began to cut.
"You hair is so long I should use a bowl, like I did when you were a little boy." She talked as she worked. "How your sisters used to hate you. Taisai used to wail to me for hours how it wasn't fair that you had beautiful hair and she didn't."
"She's a foot taller than me; I would gladly trade her height for my hair," Illya muttered and his mother brushed the hair clippings from his cheek and kissed it.
"A few inches! You exaggerate as bad as your papa! There's my Illyusha, so full of fire." She continued to cut. "You and your papa, you have a good talk?"
"Not really, but an honest one."
"Good, it was time for someone to make you open your eyes and see how foolish you are being. You will be going home with Napoleon? That answer will be yes, won't it, Illyusha?"
"Yes, Mama."
"Good, now, go bathe, with soap." She pulled the sheet carefully off him. "Your clothes are in your room."
As Illya walked out of the kitchen, he saw Napoleon standing quietly to one side of the door as if trying to gather his nerve. "It's no good hiding, she will find you."
"Illya, we have to talk."
"Later, you will talk," Yuliya interrupted in her heavily-accented English as she appeared at the door. She pointed to the kitchen. "Now, we talk."
Illya stood behind the shelter of the small barn, downwind, and lit a cigarette. He rarely smoked, but every once in awhile, nothing else would do. He took a deep drag on it and let it slowly escape, watching the smoke hang in the air for a second before the wind snatched it away.
"Your mother will kick your ass if she finds you out here smoking, Illya Nichovetch. Do you not remember the last time? Perhaps it would be better if I hold that." He father held out a hand and Illya passed the cigarette over, smiling as the man took a deep puff on it himself. "It's good."
"She'll kick your ass as well."
"Yes, but there is a small difference; she sleeps with me and even your mama occasionally wants sex."
Illya shook his head at the thought. "I though perhaps you did it by osmosis."
Nicholas laughed and slapped him on the back.
"You up for sharing? Or am I still persona non grata?" Napoleon appeared, looking lost in Vyetka's heavy jacket. Nicholas stared at him until Illya translated and then he passed the cigarette over.
"He doesn't speak a word of English, Napoleon."
"Just your mother?" Illya nodded and Napoleon continued in Russian. . "I didn't know you smoked." Napoleon held the cigarette for a moment, then puffed and handed it back
"Nor I, you." Illya resumed staring out at the sky, the day slowly and reluctantly surrendered to the night.
"I don't, as a rule."
"Nor do I, as a rule."
"It seems like a lot of those have gotten in our way recently." Napoleon switched back to English and leaned against the building and sighed. "I tried to tell him it wouldn't go well and that you would react like this. He wouldn't listen. He insisted it had been good enough for every new Section One prior to this; it would be good enough for us. He doesn't know you, not the way I do."
"It doesn't matter; what's done is done. At the end of the day, I have still resigned."
"Not exactly." Napoleon took an envelope out of his inner coat pocket. "As I said, I know you. Waverly's never seen this. As far as he knows, I talked you into taking a few weeks to cool off and decide what you're going to do."
"What? How did you...?"
"And Personnel was ecstatic to have you burning through some of your vacation time."
"I am still not happy, Napoleon."
"Then that makes two of us; do you think for one minute I approved of what they were doing? Or of what they were making me do and say? I tried to tell them it would be different in real life. In an emergency, everything would have changed." Napoleon took back the cigarette and took one last puff before dropped it and snuffing it with the toe of his shoe. "I should have just refused from the start..." He laughed softly. "You want to know what the kicker is? You passed; I failed."
"Failed what?"
"That was as much my test as yours, Illya. Waverly said I would never be able to divest myself of our partnership enough to let you go out into the field. I wouldn't make a good Section One without more training. I think he just wants a vacation, but I'm due back in a few days to take over again. This time for real."
"Your Mr. Waverly is a smart man." Nicholas settled down on a crate and leaned back, his hands behind his head. Both men looked at him confused.
"You speak English now, Papa?" Illya went back to Russian and watched his father shake his head.
"No, but I don't need to understand the words to know neither of you are happy with what has happened to you. I can see it on your faces, in your eyes. I don't need to hear it from your lips."
"Why do you say that, Mr. Kuryakin?" Napoleon asked politely.
"Illya explained what happened, at least as much as he is likely to explain to his father. To find this out before reality makes this an ugly incident. It's a foolish man who tries to control the future. Now he can prepare both of you for what is to come."
"I wish I'd talked to you a couple of weeks ago," Napoleon murmured.
Illya broke in. "This entire scenario played out under the assumption that I would remain in Section Two without you. Not an attractive proposition. Apart we are good, but our strength lies in our partnership, our ability to think and act as a team. I wouldn't want to be in the field without you watching my back." Illya crossed his arms. The night air was growing cool.
"I thought you worked well with Brown."
"After a fashion."
"If you remember, we didn't have a smooth start either." Napoleon chuckled. "You thought I hated Communists and was shallow."
"You did and you still are."
"And I thought you were a pompous know-it-all. I've since downgraded that to a know-it-some. Why didn't you trust me, Illya?"
"Why did you push me away?"
"It was part of the test; Waverly wanted an absolute break in our partnership to see if you would follow orders, even ones you didn't agree with."
"You might want to cover that cigarette butt. Mama's coming." Nicholas pointed to the shape that was approaching through the twilight. Napoleon kicked some dirt over the butt and shoved his hands in his pocket, the absolute picture of innocence. Illya smiled and lit another cigarette. Napoleon frowned at him, but Nicholas just shook his head and cuffed Illya gently. "Now you know what raising him was like."
"What are you three doing out here? Dinner is... are you smoking, Illya Nichovetch?"
"Yes, ma'am," he replied easily
"This is how you thank me for giving you life? By killing yourself?"
"I thought you deserved a break from trying to do it yourself."
"Such a mouth! Give it to me." Illya grinned and leaned forward, kissing her. "I meant the cigarette, Illyusha," she sputtered after a moment.
"I know." He handed it over and watched her walk away.
"I'd better go keep her from injuring herself. " Nicholas trailed after her.
"She's mad," Napoleon murmured.
"Because they are her cigarettes and she doesn't like to share." Illya sighed and let his head fall back. "I'm still very mad too, Napoleon."
"I know." Napoleon reached out and put a hand on Illya's arm. "I'm just asking... hell, I'm begging, don't resign."
"Why?"
"Wouldn't be as much fun... and the Old Man is wrong, Illya. I don't care what he says or thinks - I don't want to do that job without you. I'm going to need someone I can count on and trust, someone who isn't afraid to disagree with me or think for himself. I don't want a yes man, I want you, partner. It's not a weakness to admit to one. Together we are better. You don't have to give me an answer now, just think about it - that's all I ask." Napoleon offered his hand. "Please?"
After a moment, Illya took it and shook it, then pulled Napoleon into a rough hug. They stayed that way for a long time and then Napoleon whispered. "Your mother is right; you're just skin and bones. If you don't bulk up, you won't pass your next physical."
"Mama will take care of that."
"Speaking of such, shouldn't we head in?"
"You're hungry?"
"I'm freezing. Why does it have to be so cold here?"
"It's the summer. In the winter, it would be too cold to ask that."
Illya walked through the corridors of UNCLE HQ. They were as they were every other day, except for some reason the people he met greeted him differently now. There were not as many disapproving looks, more nods. He returned them in kind.
He, Al, and Luther has shared coffee and some laughs at a table in the Canteen that morning, each one of them determined to pretend the past incident had never happened. And yet, if it hadn't they would never have come together like this. Illya didn't find himself minding the camaraderie at all.
As Illya walked, he surreptitiously adjusted the waistband of his pants. He was either going to have to hit the gym more or talk to Del about letting out his pants. His mother had been a little too successful in her plot to stuff him like a Christmas goose. Napoleon was already doubling his gym time in an effort to get back to his fighting weight.
Illya stopped at the open door to Communications and looked around. Eventually he spotted his target and walked over to her, pulling something from an inner jacket pocket as he did.
Sheffield looked up, surprised, as a rose was placed in front of her.
"Illya, you came back." She jumped to her feet to hug him and then suddenly remembered where they were. She sat back down, blushing. "I'm glad you didn't resign."
"I am still weighing the options, but we had talked about familiarizing you with the various sights of New York. I thought perhaps this weekend?"
"I'd love that."
"What would you like to see? The Met? Central Park?"
"You know of any pubs that serve bangers and mash?"
"I do, surprisingly enough..."
"And... um, maybe back to your place for a nightcap?" She bit her bottom lip. "Too much too fast?"
Illya smiled. "Not at all."
It was a question he'd ask her that Saturday night, after drinks, after dinner, after she'd beat the pants off him at darts. They were in bed, a tangle of arms and legs and carnal intent. She merely laughed, kissed him, and responded, "Not at all." And then neither of them spoke for a very long time.
He still wasn't happy with what had transpired with Waverly, still not one hundred percent certain that Napoleon hadn't actually enjoyed lording over him, but his father was right. Illya was privileged, he was smart and, for the moment, he was home.
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