Picfic 18/9 or 9/18 if you insist :-)

[rachaeljurassic.livejournal.com]

Two stars

He should get up and do something. Anything. No use just sitting here wallowing. He sighed loudly. This was ridiculous.

Illya continued to stare at the floor thinking, not for the first time, that he should have bought a more comfortable sofa. But even the springs playing havoc with his rear end couldn’t rouse him to action.

He could read a book – he had a pile borrowed from the library. He could eat – there must be something in the fridge. He could drink, listen to music.

He wanted to do none of these things...except perhaps drink.

No. Not a good idea. He didn’t need to become any more melancholy, and vodka would only make him think about home and what he would have been doing in Moscow tonight.

He sighed again, aware that he was rapidly descending into cliché. No wonder nobody in the New York office wanted anything to do with him. He seemed to have an unlimited ability to irritate all who he worked with. His current partner had made it perfectly clear that theirs was a working relationship only and a poor one at that.

He had tried, but he still didn’t understand Americans. They smiled and asked him if he was having a nice day. They seemed friendly, too friendly if he were being honest. Nobody behaved like that back home. He’d be highly suspicious if people he hardly knew smiled at him like that.

And, like back home, all of it was superficial. When it came down to it the other agents didn’t like him and they had no interest in how his day had been. It had taken him a while to realise that, but it was just the way they were. That didn’t stop it hurting though. They’d make casual references to going for a drink some time and a month later he would still be waiting for the invitation. Then he’d overhear them talking about him and realise that it was never going to happen.

And so he found himself sitting alone in his U.N.C.L.E. apartment once more.

He looked around the room.

The man who had brought him here on his first day in the United States had apologised. According to him it was small and damp and the view was terrible. He was right about the last; the small basement window looked straight at a brick wall. However, this suited Illya perfectly; nobody could watch him from a distance, and he had memorised every brick so he could tell if they had been tampered with. The apartment was also damp when he had been away for a while, which was often, but when he got the heating working he thought it was cozy. But it was, quite categorically, not small.

Illya smiled ruefully to himself. His whole family had lived in a space smaller than this. They’d had to share a toilet and kitchen with five other families and the student who lived in the corridor. The only way to get clean was a trip to the bathhouse. Americans really didn’t understand what ‘small’ was.

It was also the first time he had ever had a place to himself. At home, university, in the navy, Paris and Cambridge he had always shared a room. In U.N.C.L.E. Moscow he’d actually had his own bedroom, but he couldn’t lock it and people were continually barging in, their concept of personal space being poorly developed. And the twenty Section 2 agents had shared a living room, kitchen and bathroom. He had often longed for privacy; the ability to shut the world out and be on his own, if only for a minute. But that was seen as somewhat suspicious behaviour back home and living arrangements did not accommodate the need for solitude. You just got used to it in the end.

And therein lay the problem. Having spent years wishing for his own space he now found he hated it.

Back in Moscow, if his colleagues had found him moping around in his room, they would have dragged him out, pushed a glass of vodka into his hand and made him enjoy himself. He would have hated them for it but soon he’d be playing cards, or pool or simply getting drunk and then somebody would start singing and he wouldn’t be able to remember quite what it was that had been bothering him.

In New York he returned every night to his basement apartment in the building reserved for section heads and visiting agents from abroad. Here, nobody would burst into his room unannounced. Nobody would need to borrow a shirt or demand that he honour his debts from the previous night’s disastrous pool tournament. He couldn’t challenge a friend to a game of chess or find out if anybody had managed to lay their hands on any razor blades this month or those pickles he liked so much but which never seemed to be available in the U.N.C.L.E. shop.

Despite his growing inertia Illya managed to lever himself off the couch and make his way to the kitchen. He retrieved a jar of pickles from the fridge and a bottle of vodka from the freezing compartment. Damned common sense, he needed a drink.

Four slugs later he was feeling both better and worse. He liked the burn down the back of his throat and the salty pickles, even if they weren’t the same as the ones back home. He was also feeling like he might actually be able to get to sleep. His eyes had drifted shut. He might just fall asleep here on the couch.

*****

Napoleon Solo hesitated. Should he be here? Maybe he should just leave?

It had been a couple of months since Kuryakin had returned to New York. He had been in Cuba throughout the Bay of Pigs debacle and Napoleon had meant to talk to him since his return but somehow the opportunity hadn’t come up.

This afternoon he’d had a meeting with the Number 1 of Section 2. Something was brewing in Berlin so a number of agents were flying out. Napoleon would be staying in New York for the moment but Sorenson had asked him to pair up with Kuryakin. He had also heard that the Russian had received mail from home and had been acting ‘weirder than usual’ according to his current partner, Ben Stokes. Deciding this was as good an opportunity as any to get to know the man a little better Napoleon had made his way over to Kuryakin’s apartment building to find out what was going on.

He knocked. And waited. Eventually the door was unlocked and cracked open. A rather dazed Russian stared back at him, blinking.

“Er....Mr Solo.....I, er....”

“Illya, sorry to disturb you,” Napoleon cut in. “May I come in?”

“Um, yes of course.”

Kuryakin stepped back and opened the door wide. If Napoleon didn’t know better he would have said the man was a little drunk. Or perhaps he had just been asleep and was having trouble waking up.

Walking into the apartment he caught sight of a bottle on the table and realised his first instinct had been correct. It was becoming clear that something was indeed wrong. Admittedly he had no proof that the Russian didn’t get blasted every night but somehow he doubted it.

“Would you like something to eat?” Kuryakin asked.

“No, that’s fine.”

Illya’s speech wasn’t slurred and he was steady on his feet but there was an odd, unfocused look in his eyes. He was watching Napoleon with an air of growing anxiety.

“It’s nothing important, Illya,” the American continued. “I was in the building and er, thought I’d drop by to let you know we need to meet up tomorrow. Sorenson wants us working on background for the agents in Berlin.”

“Oh.”

Now he said it, Napoleon realised this sounded a bit weak.

“I thought I’d er, check that you hadn’t anything else on.”

The Russian was looking more confused by the minute. Napoleon had to admit that this was pretty odd behaviour for a senior agent.

“I don’t.”

“Good...good,” Solo replied. This was definitely getting awkward. He should really just leave the poor man alone, but the bottle of vodka was worrying him.

“Can I have a pickle,” Napoleon asked. “I’m a little hungry now I think about it.”

“Of course.”

Kuryakin handed over the jar.

“Would you like a drink?” the Russian continued.

“That would be great.”

Illya disappeared into the kitchen. Napoleon wondered what the other man thought. Solo suspected that few people dropped in to see him. He was still considered a loner in the New York office. He was seen as an outsider and many remained suspicious of him. Every month, if seemed, something happened to lower the temperature of the already chilly Cold War and Kuryakin became correspondingly more unpopular. Napoleon knew that he ought to do something about it, he was his superior, but there was more to it than that. What little he knew of the man intrigued him. Increasingly he was finding that he wanted to know more about the Russian agent.

The man in question returned with a glass and poured a shot for himself and Napoleon.

“Cheers!” he said before throwing it back.

Solo hesitated for a moment. He wasn’t really a vodka drinker.

“Am I, er, supposed to drink it in one?” he asked.

“Well...er...” the Russian shrugged, his head tilting slightly to one side in a manner that Napoleon was fast becoming accustomed to.

Solo took the plunge and, just about, managed not to choke.

“I’m sorry I don’t have anything else,” Kuryakin said, noticing the American’s discomfort.

“No, no,” Napoleon replied. “I like vodka.”

Illya held out the bottle enquiringly and Napoleon realised he had just set himself up. He hoped the rumours about Russians weren’t true.

Three quick drinks later he wondered what the hell he was doing.

It was still alarming that the man appeared to be drinking heavily – even more so that he was relatively unaffected. At least compared to Napoleon. The American was beginning to think that getting to know Kuryakin was a bad idea, at least in terms of the health of his liver.

He was sitting on the sofa, Illya on the bed. On the table between them was the jar of pickles, the vodka bottle, a few papers and two items that had caught Napoleon’s attention from the moment he sat down. He hadn’t mentioned them because he didn’t know where to start but he was fast becoming drunk enough that he might just throw caution to the wind.

They had been talking about work. It seemed a safe topic and Solo hadn’t been sure how the Russian would react to personal questions. Finally he’d had enough and decided to get down to the point.

“Is everything all right?” Napoleon asked as casually as possible while crunching a pickle.

“Yes.”

Illya sounded a little defensive. Should he persist?

“I just wondered why, er, you were getting drunk on a Tuesday night.”

Kuryakin shrugged.

Napoleon ploughed on, the vodka was doing nothing for his stomach lining but seemed to be having a remarkable effect on his bravado.

“It’s just I, er, know you got some mail today. I wondered if anything was wrong...if you might need to....er...” his voice trailed away. Kuryakin was looking at him very strangely. Then he smiled slightly, shaking his head.

“No, nothing is wrong,” the Russian replied after a moment.

“Then what?”

There was a long pause. For a moment Napoleon thought he had stepped over an invisible line, pushed too far, maybe even offended the man.

Eventually Illya spoke up.

“I’ve been promoted.”

“I’m sorry?” the American asked.

“You know...promoted.”

“Oh.”

Napoleon stared at the table. Suddenly he reaslied what the two small stars were.

“I’m a senior lieutenant now.”

“Oh...congratulations,” Solo replied, somewhat lamely.

Kuryakin nodded slowly, his eyes downcast.

“That’s, er, a good thing isn’t it,” Napoleon asked.

“Of course.”

“Then why the long face?”

Illya didn’t answer.

“I suppose it’s a big deal back home,” Solo continued, thinking he might know the problem. “I guess you have a celebration of something."

“Something like that.”

“Does it involve vodka?” Napoleon asked.

“Everything back home involves vodka.”

The American laughed quietly.

“Well, we’ve done the first bit then,” Solo said.

“What?”

“We’re drunk already, so what’s next?”

“What do you mean?” Illya asked.

“What would you be doing next...back home?”

Kuryakin thought for a moment.

“Well,” he began, “all my fellow officers would tell stories about me, preferable embarrassing ones. We’d also eat bread.” Illya paused. “And then they’d pin my stars on my shoulder boards.”

“Bread?”

Kuryakin shrugged and then suddenly stood up and disappeared into the other room.

*****

In the kitchen Illya wondered what the hell he was doing? He must be drunk. He hacked a slice off a loaf of bread and headed back into the main room. Solo was still sitting on the couch. He looked rather confused, which was hardly surprising.

“Just a minute,” Kuryakin muttered as he searched through the third draw down in his side cabinet. In between a pile of shirts he found what he was looking for. He turned round holding them in this hands, suddenly worried that he was being foolish.

But he missed this. Back in Moscow he would be blind drunk by now, listening to outrageous tales, many of which were mostly untrue. He would be among people who he considered his friends, people who liked and respected him. This should have been a big night for him but instead he had thought that he would be spending it alone. Now though, he could at least be with one other person who might, possibly, like him. He wasn’t sure, but why else would the man be here.

“Are those your shoulder boards?” Solo asked.

“I brought them with me,” Illya replied, by way of explanation. “I don’t know why.”

“So what do I do now?”

“Pin the stars on.”

Napoleon took the shoulder boards and two small stars. There were already two on each, either side of the central, black line.

“Where?”

Illya went over to his desk and returned with a ruler. After a quick measurement he pointed at the exact spot on the centre line. Solo obliged.

“I don’t suppose you have the rest of your uniform?” the American asked with a wry smile.

“Er, no.”

“Well...” Napoleon stood up in front of Illya. He carefully placed each one on the Russians shoulders and held them there. “Congratulations senior lieutenant.”

Kuryakin smiled widely.

“Comrade senior lieutenant,” he corrected.

“My apologies. Comrade senior lieutenant.”

“Thank you.”

And then, before he could think twice about it, he kissed the American on both cheeks. To his credit, Napoleon didn’t let the shoulder boards fall, but he did look fairly stunned.

“Sorry,” Illya said. “I didn’t mention that bit.”

And then Illya laughed, the expression on Solo’s face finally getting the better of him.

“Is there anything else?” Napoleon asked, with trepidation.

“Now we eat bread...and get drunk.”

“We aren’t already drunk?”

“American’s do not know the definition of drunk.”

*****