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Disclaimer: The U.N.C.L.E. characters do not belong to me. They have been borrowed strictly for fun and not for fortune.
"The Room With A Deja Vu View Affair"
By Agent Ross
Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin found themselves trapped in a room—for five days—fighting a most formidable foe, engaging an enemy greater even than T.H.R.U.S.H..
Yes, U.N.C.L.E.'s top two enforcement agents were battling...boredom.
Their Superior had benched them.
Unlike a professional athlete, for whom being benched was considered a form of punishment, being benched by 'the Old Man' was, rather, a reward for a job well done. So, following an extremely physically and mentally demanding, highly successful assignment, the two men had been sent on a mundane surveillance mission in France.
For Kuryakin, being stuck in a hotel room anywhere was torture. But to be trapped in Paris, of all places, to know that such an exciting city lay just outside their door, was almost more than he could bear.
The Russian had not been left completely bereft of entertainment, however.
His partner's pent up libido had led to a rather torrid love affair with the fresh-towel lady...well, torrid, if one could read body language. Which the multi-lingual agent was indeed adept at doing. Since circumstances dictated that the U.N.C.L.E. team remain together in the room, at all times, all love making had been accomplished with the couple completely clothed, undressing each other with their eyes only.
Fortunately for Illya, he was not easily embarrassed.
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Midway into yet another uneventful afternoon, and weary of their usual word games, the two agents sank into a long, comfortable silence.
Which the Russian finally broke.
Having finished the newspaper articles he was interested in, Illya had begun reading other things, things like the 'Obituaries' and 'Help Wanted' sections. "Napoleon, if you were not already gainfully employed saving the world, what line of work would you fancy yourself in?"
Solo didn't have to ask why his partner had posed the question. He figured his friend was simply exploring another avenue of escape from the excruciating, and ever-present, ennui. "I've never really given it much thought. Where do you see me putting in my job application?"
"I don't see you putting in any job applications."
Napoleon's eyebrows arched and he aimed an irritated glare in Illya's direction. "Fine thing, when your best friend writes you off as a bum."
The Russian adjusted the volume on his headset and suppressed a smile. "I mean, I can't see you ever working for anyone else—other than Mr. Waverly. I picture you more as being your own boss."
Solo glanced up from his closed-circuit television monitor, and his brows arched again, this time, in suspense. "And how are Me, Myself and I employed?"
Kuryakin contemplated his partner's unique 'people skills' over for a few moments. Unfortunately, he hadn't come across any 'Gigolo—Don Juan—or International Playboy Wanted' ads. Manual labor was out. Whenever possible, Napoleon, who had expensive tastes in clothing and company, preferred to utilize his brain rather than his brawn. "To maintain your current standard of living, while exerting as little effort as possible, I picture you running your own business..." Illya paused, to take his globe-trotting associate's insatiable desire to travel into account. "an international company...which would feature a product that practically sells itself. The latest high tech gadget, perhaps?"
"Ahhh, a traveling salesman," Solo surmised with a thoughtful nod. "Please, spare me the jokes."
"Your turn," his partner prompted, suppressing another smile, "to find me suitable employment."
Napoleon considered his partner's prowess in Physics and Chemistry. A college professor, perhaps? Nahhh.
Suddenly, it hit him.
Illya would have to find an outlet for his creativity!
Solo had caught brief glimpses of his partner's creative genius. Heck! Even while he was destroying things, Kuryakin was incredibly creative about it.
Musically? The Russian had remarkable eye/hand coordination. Solo had lost track of how many different instruments his partner had mastered.
Artistically? To pass the time, Illya had drawn pictures and placed them over the sad art hanging in their hotel room. Employing his photographic memory, Kuryakin had sketched the outdoor cafe where they'd first met their Paris contact—complete with the lithe brunette, who had been seated at the table beside theirs. Napoleon noted, however, that his partner had given the girl a much more figure-flattering—and fashionable—frock than she'd originally been wearing. "I see you as either a blond Beatle...or a Russian Rembrandt."
Kuryakin cocked his head as he considered his friend's confounding comments over, carefully. He was just about to inquire what had prompted his partner to propose those two particular lines of employment, when the long-awaited sounds of 'movement' came through his headset. "My bird is about to leave his roost!"
Solo glanced up from his TV screen. "Mine, too!"
The two agents abandoned their surveillance equipment, got to their feet, snatched up their jackets and began heading for the door.
Napoleon paused, for an instant or two, to study his appearance in their dresser's mirror. 'Friends are a lot like mirrors,' he mused, raking a hand through his hair. 'Look into a really good one...to find a true reflection of yourself.' The agent smiled inwardly and hurried off to catch up to his partner.
The better the friend—the truer the reflection.
Epilogue
Fifteen years later...(See "The Fifteen Years Later Affair")
Napoleon had gone from CEA at U.N.C.L.E. to CEO of his own international computer company.
Illya's artistic talents came to the fore, and he became internationally famous for his haute couture. The Russian Rembrandt's works of art were 'fabricated' at Uncle Vanya's, in New York, where bolts of cloth became his canvases. Women, all around the world, wore his creations—like little mobile art galleries.
The End