Butterfly

[svetlanacat6]

 

Napoleon Solo was tired. It had been a long day, a long boring day. One more long boring day.

They were looking at him with envy, a barely disguised envy. Envy, he could understand. But the older Section 2 agents pursed their lips doubtfully. The younger Section 2 agents pursed their lips doubtfully. Their inquiring gazes were aggravating. “Why him? Why not me?” Napoleon Solo could read the question in their eyes. He could hear them think.

A few months ago, they were his friends. Friends? No, not exactly. Uncle Section 2 agents were not used to have friends. They had fellows. They spoke, joked, acted in a friendly way.

They still did, politely.

Napoleon Solo felt a bit disenchanted. Being an Uncle agent, a Section 2, a field agent was something extraordinary. It was a dangerous life, demanding, amazing, and so exciting.

Until this day.

Alexander Waverly had called many people in his office. At the end of the day, it had been his turn. The Section 1 Number 1 was sitting behind his desk, and he had stared at him over his glasses.

Napoleon Solo liked challenges. Waverly had decided that he would be the new CEA. The Chief of Enforcement Agents.

“I have put your name forward for this post, Mr Solo. What do you think?”

What did he think? Of course, he wanted to! He knew that he would do well. It was not ambition. He had dreamed of it. And it was worth the effort.

But though he never pulled rank on the other agents, he was their superior. They knew it.

When they had to work at his side, on an assignment, they were all that he could expect from a partner: faithful, efficient. But they kept their distance.

When he met them, when they talked, when they joked, they were nice, smiling. But they always kept their distance.

And Napoleon Solo sighed. He had been one of them. He had worked with the previous CEA. He had kept his distance, too. A chief had to be alone...

---

When he came back from Waverly's office, he felt better. An exciting assignment... an evil Thrush plot. Something to do. He sat on his couch, ready to study the file. Anyway, he was still amazed about Waverly and his strange ideas. The Old Man had intended to get a Russian agent at the New York HQ. He had told him about it, a few days ago. Napoleon Solo knew that there were some of them in London, but well, a Russian, here...

“The young man I told you about has apparently chosen to stay at the London HQ. Anyway, probably, it was not a very wise idea.”

Napoleon Solo sighed. It might have been an interesting experience. Some day, he would be Section 1 Number 1, if he survived - and he would survive -, and he would try to realize Waverly's dream. Some day.

Illya Kuryakin was tired. It had been a long day, a long boring days. One more long boring days.

They were looking at him with suspicion. Suspicion, he could understand. Things were not easy for him. Things were not easy for them. He didn't expect them to speak, to act friendly. No, surely he didn't. He didn't need them. All that Illya Kuryakin needed was just Illya Kuryakin. He wanted them to be indifferent.

"Please. Ignore me. Let me do my job."

Precisely, they didn't. They didn't let him do his job, the job he was good at. He had been told to take the role of an Uncle agent. A London Uncle HQ field agent. But for them, he wasn't an agent, and especially not a field agent. He was a pretext. Whatever they asked him to do, someone watched, someone peeped. Someone checked.

But suspicion, he could understand.

A Russian pretext. Not a defector, that would have been satisfying. No. A Soviet pretext. A communist pretext.

Russia. His government had sent him in France, then, in the UK. As a student. A brilliant student. And it had been a pleasant time, because people, around him, looked at him as a student, not as a strange animal. Then, Uncle, the Survival School. A challenge, but no that unpleasant. Defeating Cutter had been worth the effort. After, he had been sent in London. Suspicion.

He sighed, smiling bitterly. At the London Uncle HQ, his superiors, his fellow agents looked at him with barely disguised suspicion, because he wasn't a defector. And as a very bad joke, his own country, now, his own government who had sent him there distrusted him, as if he was one.

But still, suspicion, he could understand. He had a place to live. A place where he could take refuge, every evening, every night. A place where he could escape from their contempt. Their scornful gaze.

Why him? Of course, his government had been quite happy to get rid of this little boy. About the Survival School? A cheater! You couldn't believe, looking at him, that he would have survived Cutter's Survival School.

He could have showed them. He could have challenged them, but he hadn't. It would have been useless. He had gone on, and made his way towards... he didn't really know. Eventually, he could live with their suspicion, their contempt. All Illya Kuryakin needed was Illya Kuryakin.

"Ignore me. But if you can't help suspecting me, scorning me, bad luck, I'll cope with it."

It had worked well.

Until this day. He felt ill at ease, dizzy.

The London Uncle HQ chief had called him in. That simple thing was extraordinary. The man was sitting behind his desk, and he had looked at him, up and down, obviously aggravated.

Illya Kuryakin liked challenges. This one was simply unbelievable. Alexander Waverly wanted him to join the NY Uncle HQ.

“So, Mr Kuryakin, what do you think?”

"Good riddance! Go away!" He didn't say it, but Illya Kuryakin could hear the words.

What did he think? Of course he would like to! And, of course he wouldn't go! He had set up an acceptable way of living. Of surviving. He was not sure he would be able to do it again. Being a Soviet Uncle agent was a challenge in London. In New York...

The man had went on, with an annoyed tone.

“Of course, you can't take the decision on your own. I told that to Waverly. Anyway, he wanted to know if you were interested, before giving notice to your government.”

Words had escaped from his mouth.

“I... I am not interested, sir.”

Wrong words. Liar. Coward.

He had read the other man's feeling. Surprise, incredulity, and, of course, suspicion. Suspicion and scorn.

The secretary has smiled at him, gently. She was nice to him. He had no friends, but a few, a very few people who looked at him as a human being. He felt that he could afford to loose them.

It might have been an interesting experience. But Illya Kuryakin never allowed himself to regret anything. He had always denied himself any chance of going back on a decision. Whatever the decision.

The phone startled him. A harsh voice which didn't let him say a word, except yes.

They knew. They knew Waverly's offer. They knew he had refused.

And he should have known that he had no choice.

He would have to go.