Secret

[svetlanacat6]

 I wrote this a long time ago, and eventually rewrote it...

In the beginning...

In the locker-room, he checked the reflection of his slim body in the mirror. So, here he was, in the U.S. For one day, one week, one month, one year...? For his whole life? A Section 2 Uncle agent's life could be short.

 

He didn't know. Above all, what he didn't know was what he wished. He was Russian, a Soviet citizen, but be wasn't a defector. His government had lent him to Uncle. Of course, he had been left free to choose, as usual... He sneered at the memory.

He had been assigned a partner, the Section 2 number 1 himself, the CEA, Napoleon (!) Solo... It didn't fool him. It wasn't to honor his country, even less to honor him. Had an American agent been “invited” in the USSR, he would have been “assigned” more than one “partner”. Alexander Waverly had just told him: “Mr. Solo will show you the ropes, Mr. Kuryakin.”

He had worked with the GRU, the KGB. Then, he had struck up an acquaintance with Jules Cutter, at the Survival School. As if he needed a baby sitter... Or was Napoleon Solo a watchdog?

***

Napoleon Solo wasn't CEA by sheer chance, though. He was a professional, efficient, very efficient. He was a nice man, too, open-minded – he had fought in Korea, but didn't mind working with a Russian Soviet agent – and easy-going. He teased him, always gently. He was handsome, attractive, a seducer...

He was also infuriating, aggravating and disarming.

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Outside the locker-room, he was waiting for his ... partner. A partner...

“Mr Solo, you'll show him the ropes!”

A Russian. This was the New York Uncle HQ attraction! How long would he stay there? Napoleon Solo didn't know. Until his government would call him back, until he would give up and choose to go back home? Being Russian, but not a defector, working in the US, in New York, at the moment, was quite a challenge, a rough challenge. The Russian was taking it up, for the moment... Napoleon Solo knew one thing for sure: he would do his best to help him...

***

He didn't really look like a Russian spy. Well, he didn't really look like a spy. Blond hair, slightly -amazingly – too long. Blue... very blue eyes. Fine features. Rather short of stature, and slim, very slim. He was young, and looking younger than he was, especially when he pouted...

But Illya Kuryakin was a professional, efficient, very efficient. A Mr Know-all, too. No, that was unfair. The man knew... a lot of thing, but didn't like to be in the forefront.

He was a... pain in the neck. And that wasn't entirely unfair. He was distant, self sufficient, aloof, even prickly. He was incredibly stubborn. He teased him, gently, more or less... He was handsome, attractive. Women melted for him. He simply ignored... No. Worse. He looked as if he didn't even notice them.

He was also infuriating, aggravating and disarming.

 

 

Five years later...

“That's why I said you should live with me! Er... I mean, in the same building!”

Illya Kuryakin smiled grimly at his friend, rolled his eyes and went out, waving his hand.

Five years. He was a full Uncle agent though his status was still indefinite. He wasn't really a defector. He didn't think so. He had never stated anything about it. Anyway, he would never go back to Russia. If his government ordered him to... He brushed away the unpleasant thought.

Living there? With Napoleon... as a neighbor? Oh, no.

Napoleon was an efficient partner, a close friend, the closest he had ever got. He was faithful, concerned... but still an incorrigible woman-chaser.

You talked with him, and his glance wandered round. Suddenly, he focused his eyes on something. Someone. A woman. A passer-by. An innocent. An agent. An enemy. Mostly, nothing more than a glance. Sometimes.. . Often. Very often... No, he could never live here, and ...

“Illya!”

Napoleon had run after him. He looked sorry, and grabbed his friend arm, pulling him close.

“Illya, are you okay? I didn't want to hurt you... All I meant was...”

Illya Kuryakin put his hand right on his friend's, and forced a smile.

“I know what you meant, Napoleon, and you didn't hurt me. I... I'll think about it.”

Napoleon Solo shook his head, leaned forward, closer, and whispered.

“A polite version of “how interesting!”, tovarisch!”

He released his grip and went away, waving his hand.

Illya Kuryakin had seen Napoleon Solo with other agents, male agents. Some of them were his friends but Napoleon kept kind of a safe distance from them. He tapped them on their shoulders, but stayed mostly at a arm's length. He hugged them, sometimes, for one or two seconds.

He acted differently with him. He always had. Illya Kuryakin smiled faintly. Napoleon touched him, he often leaned against him, as he had just done. He talked to him, close, so close.

But a lady came. The grip was released. The eyes focused on her...

By the way, Iilya Kuryakin felt unsure. Napoleon looked worried, hurt.

Would he run after him, to ... apologize?

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So self-controlled Illya. So discreet. So ... mysterious. Nobody knew what Illya Kuryakin did when he left the Uncle headquarter. Except for Napoleon Solo, they thought. All of them. And they were wrong. Of course, he went sometimes at his partner's home. Home? A tiny place, where Illya lived, between his books and his records. Or... was it a smoke screen? Illya Kuryakin's girl friends... Perhaps... just one? Perhaps... Section 2 agents couldn't marry, but... Perhaps, somewhere, a young woman was waiting for him, a wife, perhaps... he had a child... And Illya couldn't entrust such a secret to anyone.

Even... to his closest friend?

Napoleon had seen him almost dying. He would have told him... For his family's sake. He would have told... He would have entrust them to him.

Illya was distant, at a arm's length from anybody, male or female, but he accepted him, his touch, his closeness. Of course, sometimes he sighed, he rolled his eyes, he muttered... but he accepted. And he ... paid back. Sometimes.

So... why did he refuse to live there?