First Meeting... By Starlight...

[svetlanacat4.livejournal.com]

Could a greater miracle take place than for us to look through each other's eyes for an instant?"
Henry David Thoreau

 

Silent night.

Deserted night.

Night meant darkness, peaceful darkness.

He was alone.

 ***

He was sitting on the roof. He just... watched. He looked around. He looked at the sky. He could make out every star. They were familiar. He could stare at them. Safely.

It had been such an ordinary day in UNCLE headquarter and the next day would be one more ordinary day.

The New York UNCLE headquarter and his new strange animal.

Illya Kuryakin wasn't the paranoiac one. He'd come in Del Floria's shop, then in Reception and it would start, again.

***

She peeped at him, as he came closer. Quickly, discreetly. She smiled at him, politely, holding out his ID. And she peeped again. He could ignore her. He could smile at her. She peeped.

Then, he walked towards his small office. He met people, of course, very polite people. They gave him a nod and so did he. They averted their eyes and passed him. Then, they examined him. He could feel they eyes. A twinge in his neck. They eyed him from top to bottom until he left the hallway.

And he could hear them.

How strange! How blond! How young! How Russian!

A Russian? Are you sure? A defector?

No! A Russian, I tell you! A Soviet! A real one!

His eyes... How blue! A communist, are you sure?

A Commie! Yes, a red one!

Of course, they didn't say a word but he could read their thoughts.

It was probably unfair and he turned to be paranoiac. They were polite, all of them. Some of them looked at him just out of curiosity. A few ones paid really attention to him and they were mostly sympathetic towards him.

Probably.

He was a strange animal. They were right.

He lay on the roof.

Would he ever be able to merge into them?

Did he want to?

Would he manage to live, to survive, there? Yes. Of course, yes. They could gape at him. He didn't mind. They could glare at him. He would cope with that.

The next day. Another day. One more ordinary – boring - day at the UNCLE HQ.

Or not. Alexander Waverly would perhaps assign a mission to him. He'd have something to do, at last.

Illya Kuryakin sneered bitterly. No chance.

The top section 2 agent was back. He had successfully fulfilled a very difficult assignment.

The Russian would see.

The Commie would have to be very careful.

Napoleon Solo was back.

He hadn't met him but he would bump into the man in the HQ. Sooner or la...

It wasn't a cat. Or a very big one. It moved very silently. Not enough, anyway.

Illya Kuryakin took hold of his gun, rolling over.

“Illya Kuryakin?”

The big cat took some steps forward. The Russian stood up lithely, keeping his eyes on him. A dark haired, genuinely smiling man who was showing his hands. No gun.

“I'm Napoleon Solo. The Old Man...” He raised an eyebrow quite comically. “Mr. Waverly want to see us immediately. I came to pick you up.”

Napoleon Solo stopped and took some steps back behind the computer. A young, apparently very young, blond man had just come in the office, making his way to the desk, without a word, just nodding, vaguely. He picked up a file and went away, still silently.

So here he was. The Russian. The Uncle was an international organization. For months, Alexander Waverly wanted to get a Russian agent - and had eventually managed to get one.

A... Russian?

No sooner had he arrived than Napoleon Solo knew “all” about him.

They had looked for a Russian bear: heavy built, tall, impressive. Someone who would be a real challenge.

They had looked for a Russian snake: cold, threatening, dangerous, treacherous. Someone who would be a real challenge.

They had looked for a peacock: boasting, self-important, clumsy, show off. Someone who would be a real challenge.

Icing on the cake, he could be a mix of all that. He had gone through Cutter's Survival School. A real challenge.

A few Uncle tomcats, in the New York Uncle HQ, had looked for their Russian canary.

And...

He was a very young boy, er... man. Of course older than he looked like to be. He was of average height (very average, ridiculously small, some muttered), slender ( ridiculously skinny, some muttered). He had blond hair (ridiculously long), (ridiculously) innocent blue eyes, (childish) pouting lips. And a (ridiculously) shy look.

So, that was Waverly's marvel?

An intellectual. He was an intellectual, a scientist. Not a field agent. Russians had deluded the Old Man. The man was a fake, a cheater. Anyway, Waverly didn't give him any assignment.

The tomcats were polite, civil. No choice. Alexander Waverly had heard some whispered words: red, commie... Those who has said them had just met the very special Old Man's freezing glare. So, they looked at him, they stared at him. They peered, peeked, peeped at him.

Mostly out of curiosity.

Sometimes with obvious interest.

Sometimes with obvious loathing for the newcomer.

***

A voice sneered behind Napoleon Solo. “He just looks like my little sister's boyfriend!” The man sneered again, coarsely, seeking for Solo's attention – and agreement.. “The blue-eyed boy...”

And he stopped as Napoleon Solo turned to him. He cleared his throat. “I... I was kidding!” He frowned. “He's Russian! A Soviet, Solo!” The man was looking at him hopefully. Napoleon Solo had fought in Korea so he would... No. Apparently not. The man fell back and slipped away..

***

“Oh, Mr Solo, nice to see you back. Well done.”

Wow, Napoleon thought. This was... great. Alexander Waverly had warmly congratulated him. “Well done.”

Then, the Old Man had asked about different things but Napoleon Solo knew his Waverly well. The man wasn't one to beat about the bush.

Usually.

Where was the rat?

Waverly was playing with his pipe, keeping silent for a few seconds. Another telltale sign... Napoleon sighed deep inside.

“I'm aware that you just come back from a mission.” He paused and filled the pipe. “...but there is something I'd like you to see at.”

“would like”?

Alexander Waverly lit the pipe and put his hand on a file. Though, he didn't hold it out to his agent.

“It's probably nothing. But, just for that, it could be a good opportunity.”

A “nothing” affair? A good “opportunity”?

Where was the rat?

Napoleon raised inquiring eyebrows. Alexander Waverly was looking at him with a very disturbing and... devilish smile.

“A good opportunity of testing...” He puffed his pipe, savoring the moment. “... your new partnership.”

No rat. Just an Old Cat watching his Solo canary.

One, two, three. Catch it, Solo, catch it. He swallowed.

“My... new... partnership, sir?”

At the very moment he spoke, he caught on to the trick.

The strange Russian animal. He knew better, anyway, than to say anything, waiting for Waverly's next move.

“Illya Kuryakin. Our Russian agent. A very competent, very brilliant young man, Mr Solo. And...”

Alexander Waverly leaned forward, with a very serious look. A concerned look. “And things aren't easy for him, here, Mr. Solo.”

Illya. Illya? Kuryakin. He realized that the Old Man was waiting, staring at him. Waverly pointed his finger at a second file.

“This is Mr Kuryakin's file, Mr. Solo. I think...” He smiled. “I think it will give you some assurances...”

As Napoleon Solo was holding out his hand, he changed his mind and shook his head.

Napoleon Solo didn't trust many people.

He trusted two: himself and Alexander Waverly.

Respect, trust and confidence. He trusted the man. Alexander Waverly valued the Russian agent. He had chosen him. He cared about him.

It was enough. As the CEA, he would read Kuryakin's file. Later.

Alexander Waverly smiled imperceptibly.

“Lisa will call him to join us, Mr. Solo.”

Napoleon raised a hand. An official introduction meeting in Waverly's office? No. He didn't feel at ease with that.

“Sir? If you don't mind, I could go and take him back with me? It would be more...”

Alexander Waverly's smile was now obvious. Of course, the sneaky Old Man was expecting him to do that.

“It's a nice thought, Mr. Solo. Here is Mr. Kuryakin's address...” He put his hand on Napoleon's shoulder. “And, well, remember that Mr. Kuryakin is a very well-trained agent...”

***

It was one of those ordinary apartments, in one of those ordinary brownstones.

Napoleon Solo felt uncertain. A Russian, a real one. Not a defector. A Soviet. A man he could have fought against in Korea. Illya. Il-ly-a? Eli-ya? Ail-lya? Anyway, he sighed, Mr. Kuryakin wasn't at home. The man hadn't any friends. Or some Russian ones? He was about to get his communicator, when a draft caught his attention, and he followed the Solo's instinct.

The door was open. Was the strange Russian animal on the roof?

Was he plotting something?

No. Waverly trusted Kuryakin.

Had he taken... refuge there?

Refuge?

Napoleon Solo remembered the unpleasant comments he had heard.

At least, the sky was the same, in Russia and in the US. Looking at the familiar stars, a lonely young man could imagine he was back home.

“Things aren't easy for him, Mr. Solo.”

He took a deep breath and went out, trying to walk normally. As an innocent visitor, not as an enemy. An imperceptible move, a blond flash. A gun, taking aim at him. The man was a professional. Napoleon asked, with a cheerful tone.

“Illya Kuryakin?”

Napoleon Solo took some steps back and the Russian stood up, keeping his ice blue eyes on him. Napoleon Solo smiled, his warmest smile, his most genuine look, showing his empty hands.

“My name is Napoleon Solo. The Old Man...” He hesitated. “Mr. Waverly want to see us, immediately. I came to pick you up.”

The reward was worth the effort. For one second, Napoleon Solo read his partner-to-be 's soul. A very short moment, but a real, genuinely happy smile enlightened the young man's face.

Comments

[svetlanacat4.livejournal.com]

Thank you! I was quite happy (and surprised) that LJ didn't mutter about text and images being too long...