Work Text:
Never Spoken
By YumYumPM
Kuryakin File 25
revised
1960
In the early days before Solo was made CEA, he would sit in his office joking and conversing with various other Section II agents. Most of these discussions centered on certain flavors of the month and bases made with a couple of winks thrown in.
This would not have been a big deal, if his office was his alone. Recently a new agent had been assigned to share the office with him, a young Russian, fresh out of Survival School. Maybe fresh was going a bit far. Kuryakin had been assigned first to the Paris Office and then to the London Office before finally being transferred to New York.
The two agents were rarely in the office at the same instance, Kuryakin spending a majority of his time in the lab. So sharing had not proven a problem – until now.
Kuryakin bent over his paperwork, while Napoleon sat on his desk joking with a couple of other agents. When the agents left and Solo moved around to sit at his desk. Kuryakin, not looking up from his work, felt irritated enough to say tartly, “I have better things to do then listen to you talk about doing the nasty.” Kuryakin’s soft Russian accented voice had, until now, been quiet and polite.
Solo’s first reaction was to send a biting comment back to the Russian. Then it hit him what the man had said and Napoleon nearly choked. His anger changed to shocked amusement. “Where on earth did you learn that term?”
Kuryakin actually looked up from his work, his eyes unfocused as he considered. “From Katherine…or was it Amanda. I am not sure which.”
“I can’t believe Katie or Mandy would discuss sex with you,” Napoleon teased, his mind on his paperwork.
“They didn’t exactly discuss,” muttered Kuryakin.
“What was that?” Napoleon looked up sharply. “You mean it was more then talk?”
Illya look disconcerted. “I did not say that…exactly.” He had not intended to admit to anything. He was just tired of all of Solo’s talk.
“Ummm, just what did you say…exactly?” Napoleon asked, putting down his pen and leaning forward. “Perhaps I should bug your bedroom and see.”
“If so, it will only be the one time," Kuryakin said threateningly, drawing his U.N.C.L.E. special. A glint of amusement in his eye let Solo know that he was not entirely serious.
However, just then a fellow agent entered the room, saw what he perceived to be a threat to Solo, and pulled his gun. Napoleon quickly moved to place himself between the two men, his hands palms out toward both men. “Whoa, put those away,” he ordered sharply.
“Are you sure?” the agent asked, looking distrustfully at the Russian.
“Quite sure,” Solo asserted. “Was there anything you wanted, Carl?” he asked when the gun was back in its holster.
“It can wait,” Carl said and turned to leave the room. “I’ll go file a report.”
“Carl!” Napoleon called out and when the agent turned back continued. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”
Carl sent a scorching look Illya’s way. “Whatever you say, Napoleon.”
After he was gone, each let out sighs of reliefs. Solo whirled around just as Kuryakin, shaking slightly with repressed anger over Carl’s distrust, set his gun down on his desk.
“That was exceedingly stupid,” Napoleon growled. He was fully aware that the Russian had no intention of shooting him. After all, he had worked hard to get under the blond’s placid skin. But others might not see it that way.
“I am aware of that,” Kuryakin said coolly. “It will not happen again.”
“It had better not.” Napoleon scowled going back to his desk. The next minute the scowl was gone, replaced by a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Got any plans for supper?”
“No. Why?” Kuryakin looked up suspiciously.
“Because, my friend, I think we need to have a little chat,” Napoleon said going back to work. “We might as well enjoy a good meal while I worm all your little secrets out of you.”
“Must I?”
“But of course, Tovarisch,” Napoleon said in a tone that brooked no argument as he signed his name to a report with a flourish. “After all, I am senior agent by two years.”
∞∞∞
That evening Napoleon dropped in at Illya’s apartment, a three story walkup, at precisely eight o’clock. Before he could knock, the door opened, and Kuryakin came out adjusting his jacket.
“It that what you’re wearing?” Napoleon asked, staring.
“What is wrong with what I am wearing?” Illya asked, looking down at his black turtleneck and slacks. “I have never had any complaints before.”
“Nothing in and of itself,” Napoleon said sternly, as he pushed the Russian back through the door. “However where we are going you will need a tie.”
With a sigh of resignation, Illya retreated into his room to change. Was this really going to be worth so much trouble?
Solo stood waiting, his hands in his pockets. He looked around finding the Russian’s apartment stark and sterile, devoid of personality. Except for the piles of books scattered here and there. He would have thought that after a few months here, there would be more. “Tell me. Where exactly do you take your dates?” he called out.
Illya returned suitably attired in suit and tie. In fact it appeared to be the same garments he’d worn to work that day. Perhaps it was all he had available, if the lack of possessions extended into that area as well. “Oh, the Automat, the museum, the library. Not that it is any of your business.”
The Automat? Museum? Library? “That’s it?” Napoleon couldn’t keep from asking. “You don’t wine and dine them? Cheap aren’t you?”
That stung. Kuryakin glared at the American. “Some of us are not as well off financially as others.”
Napoleon had not meant to insult the man, he wasn’t well off either. If it must be known, most of his money went toward entertaining the ladies. “My apologies. Let’s go. I hope you like Italian.”
∞∞∞
The restaurant was a favorite of Napoleon’s. The food was plentiful and good, the lighting dim. Judging by the way Illya’s suit hung on him, a few good meals would not be remiss.
The two agents were shown to a booth and the waiter asked for their orders for drinks.
“Vodka?” Napoleon asked, quirking an eyebrow.
“Scotch,” the Russian said, shaking his head.
“Make that two,” Napoleon said to the waiter, before asking the man across from him. “I thought all Russian’s drank vodka?”
“Not all,” was the terse response.
The waiter handed them menus and as he opened his, Napoleon asked, “Sooo, you’ve gone out with Katy and Mandy?”
“You sound surprised.”
Napoleon was not only surprised, he was shocked. He had been working on both women for months with no results. “Does that mean you’ve…um…done the…er…nasty?” the phrase tickled his sense of humor.
The Russian’s pale face turned red. “I am not comfortable discussing such matters.”
“So what’s your secret?” Napoleon asked after a few minutes silence.
“There is no secret. They ask me out. I go. Later they jump me, drag me into their bedrooms. I do what they want. Then I go home.”
Napoleon waited for more details, his mouth open. Kuryakin had to be putting him on.
“Please can we change the subject?” Illya urged.
Napoleon closed his mouth and shook his head in disbelief. Conceding to the Russian’s request he turned back to his menu and changed the subject. “See anything you like?”
Illya squinted. “I cannot read the menu in this light.”
The waiter returned with their drinks and stood waiting for their order.
“Do you have cheeseburgers?” Illya asked handing the menu to the waiter.
Both the waiter and Napoleon looked at him, their mouths gaping.
“Cheeseburger…you’re joking, right.” Napoleon didn’t notice the quirky smile on the Russian’s face. “What do you order for your dates?”
“They are adult. They can order for themselves.”
“Yeah. Maybe you need glasses,” Napoleon muttered. “Oookay, tell you what. Why don’t I order for you?” At Illya’s nod of approval, Napoleon turned to the waiter. “We’ll have the special. Also a bottle of the Chianti.”
“What dressing would you like on your salad?” the waiter requested, pen poised.
“Russian,” Napoleon said.
“Italian,” said the Russian.
The waiter nodded and took his leave.
After an awkward pause Napoleon asked, “So how was your day?”
Kuryakin seemed taken by surprise, but he waxed on about a puzzling problem in the lab. Napoleon showed great interest, even when the drinks were served. Something, however, caught the Russian's suspicions. Keeping his voice at the same level, he threw out. “And then the person whose office I share propositioned me.” When Napoleon did not respond to that outrageous statement, he continued a bit louder, “You are not listening to a thing I’ve said, are you?”
Napoleon had long ago mastered the art of looking as if he was interested without actually listening. He snapped back, however, when Kuryakin stopped talking and mentally reviewed what had been said. “I never propositioned you,” he responded indignantly.
Kuryakin shrugged. “Perhaps not. Is this what you do with all your lady friends?”
“Pretty much,” Napoleon admitted. “So you like working in the lab?”
“It is okay,” Illya answered, playing with his silverware. “I would really prefer blowing things up.”
“Hmmm. Well if I need something blown up, I’ll keep you in mind.”
This resulted in the first flash of a genuine smile from the Russian that Napoleon had ever seen. Their salads arrived and Napoleon watched as Illya pushed the greens around on his plate.
“Something wrong?”
“No.”
“If you don’t like Italian dressing, why did you order it?”
“Why did you order Russian dressing?”
“I happen to like Russian dressing.” Napoleon was puzzled. “You thought I had an ulterior motive?”
“Did you?”
The waiter returned to remove the salad plates and place huge platters of pasta before them. Napoleon found it amusing to watch as the Russian tried getting strings of pasta to his mouth. The pasta kept slipping off the fork before it made it to the Russian’s lips. Napoleon almost had a seizure when Illya began cutting the pasta into manageable sized pieces. Then he noticed the tiny smile on the Russian’s face that let Napoleon know that the sly Russian was doing it on purpose to irk him.
“Answer me this,” Illya asked pointing the knife he was using at the American. “Why are you so interested in my sex life?”
It was a good question. Why was he? “It’s just that you make it sound like such a chore.”
“It is not a chore,” Illya said between bites. “It is…excuse me.” All color in his face drained and he hurriedly left the table.
Napoleon sat there for a few minutes before deciding to follow. He pushed open the bathroom door to hear sounds of heaving coming from one of the stalls. “Illya?” he called anxiously.
At sound of something heavy hitting the inside of one of the stalls, Napoleon pushed that particular door open. Illya was curled up against the side.
“Are you all right?’ Napoleon asked. He received a glare from the blue eyes, before Illya once again lurched toward the bowl.
“Stupid question,” Napoleon muttered as he squatted down beside the sick man. “I’m contacting headquarters,” he said, pulling his communicator from his jacket.
Illya stopped vomiting long enough to stay his hand. “No!”
The door to the bathroom opened and closed. Napoleon went over to the sink, took a handkerchief from his pocket, wetting it. Wringing it out, he brought it over and draped it at the back of the Russian’s neck.
The manager of the restaurant burst through the door taking the scene in. “Mr. Solo, what is wrong?”
“My friend is not well. Can I get some help, Andre?” Napoleon asked looking up at the anxious man.
“But of course. Right away.” Andre turned away, snapping his fingers. Soon two waiters appeared and with their help Napoleon managed to get Illya into the car and returned to headquarters and the medical staff on call there. Had someone tried to poison the Russian? Napoleon worried.
∞∞∞
Napoleon pushed open the door to the darkened room. A dim light showed the blond head resting on a pillow. He started to turn away when the blue eyes opened.
“Feeling better?” Napoleon asked as he slipped into the room.
“Much.” Illya pushed himself up into a sitting position. “The doctors say it was just an allergic reaction to mollusk.”
“Mollusk?” Napoleon questioned with a frown.
“Yes. It was in the sauce.” Illya yawned. The nurse had given him a muscle relaxant to help with the stomach cramps, making him drowsy. “I was unaware I had an allergy,” he mused. “I should be out of here by tomorrow.”
“Good,” Napoleon said. “Mr. Waverly has an assignment for us. And if I’m not mistaken, you may get your chance to blow something up.”
“Sounds like fun.” The blond flashed a shy smile. Then he slid back down resting his head upon the pillow, his eyelids closing. “Napoleon?” he called before drifting off.
“Yes?” The senior agent turned back from the partially opened door.
“Did you mean what you said?”
Napoleon frowned. “What did I say?”
“That I was your friend.” The Russian curled on one side, trying to get comfortable.
Napoleon thought about it. The answer was obvious. “Sure did. Goodnight – my friend,” Napoleon said softly as he closed the door behind him. He missed the smile of satisfaction that flitted across the Russian’s face.
1972
The day Napoleon Solo turned thirty-nine was one of best and one of worse day in his life. The best because the entire secretarial pool (or most of it) got together and decided that as a present they would take turns wishing him a wonderful birthday in the map room. By the end of the day it was surprising that he had energy left at all.
The worst was when one of the Section II agents clapped him on the back and congratulated him on having only one more year in the field. No more getting shot at or drugged. It was then that it hit him.
No more working with his partner, no more bantering, no more watching his back. Illya Kuryakin was a more than competent agent, but he did have a tendency to get banged up, even with Solo to watch out for him. None of this was ever spoken, but the more Napoleon thought about it the more agitated he got.
He found thinking about turning forty affecting him in many areas. Going out was no longer an enjoyable experience when all he could do was wonder about who would be protecting Illya. At work Napoleon found himself snapping at fellow workers. He would have to find a quiet spot to calm down in. He kept telling himself over-and-over that Illya was perfectly capable of protecting himself, of being out there on his own. That worked for a little while.
One day, after he left a research assistant in tears, whose lack of pertinent details had left Illya without vital information that almost cost him is life, someone decided it was time to go to Kuryakin and suggest he talk to his partner. Illya, recovering from the resulting injury, had not noticed a difference in Napoleon. He had yet to witness Napoleon’s short temper, so he just shrugged it off and didn’t bring it up. So the problem, if there was a problem, was never spoken about.
Six months before Solo turned forty matters got worse. Mr. Waverly decided to start pairing Kuryakin with new partners. Napoleon was kept more and more at headquarters, deskwork his chief duty. The inactivity caused Solo’s tenuous control over his temper to really begin to slip. He managed to control it for the most part, but it was getting harder to push certain thoughts out of his mind. He knew he was being unreasonable, not trusting that other agents would value the Russian’s worth as he had, but it didn’t help. The two had worked so long and so well together, that he found the change disturbing. He tried to throw himself into his work, keeping away from personal contact with others.
Three months before Solo’s birthday things finally came to a head. Napoleon went to Waverly pleading to be allowed to stay in the field for one more year or at least to have Kuryakin transferred to the lab for that year.
Alexander Waverly looked at his senior agent as if he were crazy. “We have too much time and money invested in Mr. Kuryakin to pull him from the field. He is more than capable of surviving without you.”
Solo had backed down, the same way he’d backed down during the Concrete Overcoat Affair. He continued to do his job to the best of his abilities, which were considerable. That was until word came down that Kuryakin had been seriously injured on an assignment while his current partner received not a scratch. He exploded. Storming into Waverly’s office he calmly removed his gun and identification, placing them on a shocked Waverly’s desk.
When Alexander Waverly finally recovered from his astonishment, Solo was already gone. He ordered a complete shut down, but by then it was too late. Solo, with his knowledge of the workings of the Security Section, managed to evade them with surprising ease much to Waverly’s chagrin. He turned Section IV loose in an attempt to locate Solo. But not a trace could be found. It was as if he had disappeared from the face of the earth.
Kuryakin arrived at the medical section in pretty bad shape and when he finally regained consciousness he asked where Solo was. No one had the nerve to tell him. Mr. Waverly passed the buck to Miss Rogers, who passed it on to April Dancer (current acting CEA), who pulled rank and delegated it to Mark Slate, who decided that Randy Kovac (former trainee, now full fledge agent) was the man for the job.
Randy Kovac reluctantly entered the medical section sure he was about to be eaten alive. After all if none of the higher ups were willing to break the news it must be bad. With his knees shaking, he swallowed hard and told Kuryakin that U.N.C.L.E. had no earthly idea where Solo was.
He was greatly surprised when Illya thanked him politely for the information. It was a story he was destined to tell over and over to all and sundry in the commissary. No one could believe it.
One month later when a limping Kuryakin, his body bent, one arm wrapped protectively against his ribs, was finally released from the medical section, he made his painful way to the agent’s exit. Leaning on a sturdy cane, he handed in his badge, refusing all offers of help.
The agent scanning that exit was later interrogated about how, when a convertible pulled up in front of Del Floria’s, no alarm was sounded. The ex-CEA had left the driver’s side, rounded the front of the car and solicitously opened the door for the limping agent. He had then smiled into the camera before climbing into the driver’s seat and driving away.
Despite an intensive investigation, it was never established how Solo knew exactly when Kuryakin was to be released from Medical.
On the date of Kuryakin’s fortieth birthday, an open convertible pulled up in front of Del Floria’s entrance. Two men, one dark, the other blond, both tan, well rested and in obvious good health, got out and made there way down the stairs. The darker of the two nodded to the man behind the counter before entering the booth and turning the hook. Entering the receptionist area, a voice was heard over the intercom. “Welcome back, Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin.”
Continued in Never Alone