"Welcome to America" (expanded)~ for UNCLE firsts

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

When Illya Kuryakin first arrived in New York for his new assignment he was taken to headquarters directly from the airport to the little tailor shop that would lead him to another world, a clandestine one, hidden from the everyday person out on the street.

The drive there was an eyeopening one, as he tried not to gawk at the multitude of tall buildings, the hustle and bustle as well as the neon lights. He’d not seen anything like it, except perhaps Piccadilly Circus back in London’s East End. It wasn’t quite the same, but it was the only thing he could compare to it.

As he stepped from the UNCLE care in front of Del Floria’s, he looked around, and surprised at the simplicity of the street compared to what he’d seen on the drive from the airport.

Illya walked down the short flight of stairs, and hesitated just for a second before turning the knob and opening the door. This was a major step for him, coming to New York, yet a relief to get away from the presence of Harry Beldon...

A small brass bell tinkled his arrival to an older man behind a steam press, who looked up at him with a welcoming smile.

“Just go the dressing room,” the man, whom Illya was to learn was called Del,  winked.

The Russian knew the entry procedure, having been briefed on the way over, just go into the dressing room and turn the hook.  It was as simple as that, yet complex as a door to another world would open for him.

Illya followed the instructions and as the entryway slowly opened, he was greeted by a pleasant and pretty receptionist who handed him his badge.

“Mr. Waverly is expecting you Mr. Kuryakin, just go through the next door and....”

“Thank you, I know the way,” he said, showing no emotion.  He stepped through the secondary entrance after it silently opened, looking about before he proceeded on, making sure he had his bearings.

Kuryakin met with Alexander Waverly again for the first time in three years, and decided he still liked the man. An agent from Section III was summoned and Illya was given a tour of headquarters, assigned a desk of his own among the other field agents, after which he was told of  his permanent  living quarters.

A one bedroom apartment in the East 40’s, and after being deposited there by his Section III agent tour guide, he closed the door and revelled in the space that was to be all his own.

Compared to the single room flat he had in the East End of London, it was spacious, and best of all he did not have to share it with anyone...thinking back on his time as an agent in the Soviet Union where he shared living space with no less than six people. Not to mention the neighborhood looked much better as well.  He was told that UNCLE owned the building and rented apartments to ordinary people there as well.

His mail and bills would be forwarded to headquarters, the only one he would be responsible for paying was the utilities.  That had been a relief; though the money he was earning from UNCLE was far more than he’d been paid as an agent in the Soviet Union; he wasn’t quite sure about affording rent here in New York City. However, that worry had been eliminated when Waverly told him the Command didn’t charge their agents rent.

As far as other mail, he knew no one and had no family so there would be none of that.

In his new apartment there was a green sofa, a coffee table, several bookshelves, lamps, a small dining table and chairs, a bed, dresser and a night stand with a lamp...more furnishings than he’d had in his entire life.

In London, his living space was a cold water walk up with a Murphy bed, kitchenette and toilet. There was a table with a single chair, not that he needed much. There he paid rent but it had been nominal he supposed since it was in a bad section of the city.  He lived out of cardboard boxes basically….the same boxes that stood here now in his new home in New York.

Those boxes with his books and other meager belongings had arrived earlier, and were stacked to one corner along with his duffle bag containing all his clothing.

He would deal with unpacking later, and wandered into the bedroom where he spotted a nice sized bed. He sat down on it and bounced a few times not hearing or feeling any springs. It was firm but quite comfortable.   He stood with a smile, spying a dresser, two nightstands and a dressing mirror.  All his to use...he was in awe.

Illya wandered back out, exploring the kitchen. Lots of cabinet space, a refrigerator with a freezer, sink and a gas stove. The bathroom was surprisingly spacious, and looked quite nice in clean white tiles and the floor and walls. The toilet, sink and bathtub with a shower fixture all looked near new.  It would be glorious to take a shower...but would there be hot water?

Turning on the faucet in the sink, seconds later the water ran nicely hot...

He sighed, feeling quite content, and heading out to the living room again where the quite pleased Russian lowered himself to the floor and there he laid,  spread eagle, smiling to himself.  The serenity of the moment was only disturbed by the rumbling of his stomach.

He rose, opening his duffle bag and withdrew a shoebox, containing stacks of cash.

He cursed...they were all English pounds. He would have to go to bank to convert his savings to American currency. No going out and buying food just yet, he let go a sigh. No matter, he’d gone hungry more times than he could remember, and would survive a day or so without something to eat.

Illya walked back into the kitchen, hoping there would be a glass. He could at least fill his belly with water for the moment.

He looked at the refrigerator and what possessed him to open it, he didn't know. Much to his surprise there was a platter of food awaiting his attention.

There were assorted cheeses, mushrooms, pickles, hard boiled eggs, sliced roast beef, bread, and lastly a pot of borscht; beside it sat a container labelled ‘sour cream’.

Illya smiled as he read a card in an envelope in front of his feast.

“Welcome to America, and U.N.C.L.E.”  It was signed Alexander Waverly.  “Be back at headquarters promptly at  7 a.m. tomorrow...and by the way,  look inside the freezer.”

Illya did as the note instructed, finding a familiar black bottle there;  Moskovskaya, the brand vodka the same he drank back home, but to his surprise beside it was a clear bottle of Stolichnaya...that was the brand the party members and his superiors got to drink. It wasn’t exactly available to the masses, though Illya being devious was able to procure a bottle of it from time to time.

“Was there anything this Waverly did not know?” Illya opened the Stoli and grinned before taking a swig from it.

“Dobro pozhalovat' v Ameriku deystvitel'no (welcome to America indeed)” he said aloud.

The bosses in GRU never treated him like this...

.

Illya Kuryakin settled in his apartment in the East forties, from time to time fighting off the niggling feeling there had been a mistake. He couldn’t get over all the space allotted for just one person. Since he hadn’t been evicted over the past few months, he decided it was perhaps not a mistake after all.

Granted he’d had his own place in the East End of London when stationed there, but it was a single room, still the lap of luxury when compared to the places he’s lived back home in Soviet Union.

Now this place in New York City was to be his and his alone. No roommates to share it with; he had his own living room, bedroom, bath and kitchen.  The place came furnished, enough for his Spartan tastes. There were even cooking utensils, though cooking wasn’t exactly his forté.

He was accustomed to communal living in Moskva, and was never in charge of cooking simply because he was rarely home long enough. Consequently beggars could not be choosers...a saying he’d learned in England. His meals usually consisted of what was left to scrape out of the bottom of the pot.

His monthly stipend would only stretch so far, and when the money ran out he would find meals by means of deception or outright theft.  Military intelligence’s meager pay was deliberate, he thought, to keep their operatives lean and hungry...and creative in finding their next meal of any worth.

His meals were better and more regular in London as he usually ate at the chippies, or the Canteen located in headquarters. Cooking just wasn't something in his repertoire.

.

Illya was drawn back from his thoughts when there was a knock at his door;  instantly he drew his gun from his shoulder holster and stepping to the side before calling out.  He was suspicious, as no one knew he was here.

“Who is there?” His voice was sharp, if a little threatening.

“It’s Napoleon. Are you going to let me in or not?”

Illya put away his gun and quickly undid the lock.

“I beg your pardon, one cannot be too cautious. Please come in.”

“Caution and paranoia are often strange bedfellows...so how do you like your new digs?”

“Digs? I do not understand that reference.”

Solo quirked his head, thinking for a minute, hoping there wasn’t going to be some sort of language barrier here as he recalled Illya's lack of communication on their first assignment together. Solo's Russian wasn’t that good, so he switched to French just for the fun of it.

“Il est un terme d'argot, il se réfère à votre appartement (It’s a slang term, it refers to your apartment)

Illya snickered, though he said nothing. The American’s accent was just awful. He however, responded in impeccable French. “Pourquoi avez-vous tout simplement pas dites appartement? (Why did you just not say apartment?)

Napoleon rolled his eyes, deciding to switch back to English. He scanned the place, noting there was little to no furniture. “Sorry I haven't visited you before this. Hmm, looks like we’ll need to do a little shopping to upgrade the furnishings in this place.”

“No thank you. I have already located several second hand stores and will find what I need there.”

“Used? No no, you need to get real furniture for yourself. This is your home and it should be a place of comfort, a refuge away from our line of work.”

“Again, thank you but no. I will take care of it myself.”

Solo wandered into the kitchen, opening up the fridge and frowned, seeing it was quite empty except for two bottles of vodka.

“So what are you doing for dinner tonight?” Kuryakin looked like he could use a good meal or two as he was pretty skinny.

Illya remembering Napoleon bought him a meal at Glatts Deli on their first outing together as partners, realized his rudeness, though he had nothing edible to offer him.

“Would you care to join me? Let me pour you a vodka.”

Napoleon chuckled. “No thanks. Actually I came to invite you for dinner upstairs at my place.”

“You live here as well?” Illya was somewhat surprised at that, half expecting the likes of Napoleon Solo with his expensive clothes and tastes to be living in...Park Avenue?” He thought it odd he hadn’t been told his partner lived here as well.

“Yes my place is right above yours. Amazing how Mr. Waverly manages such things.” Solo winked.

Illya felt a little embarrassed; first his new partner bought him a meal at the deli but a week ago and now he was inviting him into his home to feed him yet again?” *

“Illya?”

“Yes Napoleon?”

“Are you coming to dinner or not? I have porterhouse steaks, baked potatoes, asparagus, Caesar salad and for dessert, apple pie a la mode.” The tone of Solo's voice made it all sound so alluring.

Kuryakin’s eyes went wide. He was becoming well aware that America was a land of plenty, but he didn’t expect so much of it be be coming his way.

“Yes, thank you. I accept your gracious invitation."

“Okay then, let’s go...though you may want to bring your vodka as I only drink scotch.”

Illya grabbed a bottle from the fridge, following the American out the door.

After eating the glorious meal had prepared for them, illya had finally relaxed a bit. He poured more vodka for himself, while Solo poured another round of scotch as well.

“A toast,” Napoleon held up his glass. “Here’s to our first home cooked meal together, one of just many more to come.”

Illya finally smiled. “Tvoye zdorovye (to your health)

“Budem zdorovye! (cheers...to our health) Solo replied as they clinked their glasses together for the very first time!



* refernce to: "The Shape of Things to Come"

Comments

[lindafishes8.livejournal.com]

I enjoy stories in which Illya is amazed by Western decadence and this is a very good example of that. "digs"- loved it.

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Thanks! I think working in England for those few years prepped him a little before moving to the 'States' but nothing could really prepare him for the likes of Napoleon. "D