SquidgeWorld Archive

The two of them were in a gray room with only a tiny window. Truthfully, it wasn't much nicer than a THRUSH cell. Looking around the depressing room, Illya sighed and turned towards Napoleon. "Why do I get all the crummy jobs? I'm stuck in this room, instead of being outside where all the action may be."

"Perhaps because you're so good at the crummy work," said Napoleon. "Also, your clothes don't need to be dry-cleaned like mine do."

Illya briefly considered throwing something at his partner but decided it would be inappropriate for the two top agents in Section 2 to engage in a brawl at their present location. In addition, the hallway outside the room they were in was bristling with U.N.C.L.E. agents, all of them restless and primed for action. The men (and women) could hardly wait for the signal that it was okay to invade the room and join Napoleon and Illya and they were getting antsy. Some of them were rocking from foot to foot in their eagerness to get in. So the news of Illya doing something impulsive as well as learning that he caused a delay in the mission by his actions, would blaze across U.N.C.L.E. in minutes. After all, wasn't he known as the Ice Prince? His cool was legendary. Stories were told of his poise under any sort of pressure. He regretfully decided to ignore the remark for the present.

To be fair, it had seemed like an assignment worthy of two enforcement agents of their stature. Napoleon was acting as head of the security detail entrusted with protecting Mr. Waverly while he addressed a meeting at the United Nations; Illya was second-in-command. Unfortunately, Illya hadn't considered all the potential tasks that accompanied the position. Specifically, the task in which he was currently engaged. Never in his wildest dreams had he thought his duties would involve something so distasteful to him. He was grateful that at least he wouldn't have to search the debris afterwards for a bomb.

The mission had started smoothly with everything going like clockwork. Mr. Waverly had entered the U.N. with a phalanx of agents flocking him, their adrenalin at high pitch. His speech had been a well received success and everyone was basking in the feeling of accomplishment. Then when they tried to exit by way of this hallway and the room, they had run into an obstacle.

"Besides," continued Napoleon unperturbed, "you're the one with the science degrees. That's why I let you handle the crappy jobs."

"Crappy?" Illya lifted an eyebrow.

"Ah, crappy, that's slang for saying something is very bad. It's, um, well it's based on a more polite way of talking about having a 'bowel movement'."

"More polite than what?"

"Govno," mouthed Solo, not wanting Mr. Waverly to overhear, even though he was out in the hallway. He was sure that Waverly heard everything up to ten miles away. In addition, he was aware that Mr. Waverly was feeling frustrated by the delay and was definitely not pleased at the sloppy work that had allowed the creation of the problem. Solo made a mental note to remember next time to check all rooms before Mr. Waverly approached them.

"Ah," said Illya. "Definitely a crappy assignment then. However, may I remind your ever-sharp brain that it may have failed to notice that my degree was in nuclear physics and not nuclear engineering?"

"Can you manage the task or not?" prodded Napoleon. He was getting more nervous with each passing second, knowing that Waverly did not wait patiently.

Illya just looked at him. "It has apparently also escaped your notice that I've already finished." He stood up straight and then twisted from the waist, trying to get the kinks out of his back. His exercise routine didn't address this sort of activity and he was feeling the pain of being bent over for so long.

"Great. That's good," said Napoleon. "Is the room clear of any outsiders?"

Illya glanced around at the cheerless room and small window, and nodded. At that signal, Napoleon exited the room, his partner, as usual, trailing along at his right shoulder. Illya was combing his fingers through his blond hair trying to restore order to his locks, which were disarranged from the tussle he had been in earlier. Napoleon, of course, was his usual immaculate self. Illya snorted, thinking that there were definitely advantages to merely supervising the unpleasant parts of agents' work, rather then having to get his own hands dirty.

They approached Mr. Waverly as he stood among the other agents, all of them sharp-eyed and watching for trouble. Several sets of eyes swivelled towards Napoleon and Illya as the two men came up to the group. Hope flared in a few as they waited to hear if they could enter.

"Mr. Waverly, sir," said Napoleon, "Mr. Kuryakin has managed to dispose of that distasteful situation you encountered in there."

"Thank you, Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin. If that's now cleared up perhaps you'll excuse me a moment," said Mr. Waverly, and he pushed open the Men's Room door.