Here's a Question...

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

How many times did Illya get paired up with a very young woman... like... teenager?  It seems as though he had several encounters similar to this one.
Anyone?


Which reminds me of a story I wrote...
Mr. Solo and the Teenybopper

The blaring sounds of rock and roll music were assaulting the ears of Napoleon Solo. No matter how well he mastered the art of au currant, the CEA of UNCLE Northwest found it virtually impossible to enjoy a meal with Mick Jagger and the Stones providing the background. His younger companion, a perky blond with a ponytail and braces, was suffering no such aversion to the sound blasting from a set of Bose speakers hot off the assembly line, that graced the walls of this Uptown apartment.

Solo had grudgingly drawn this assignment, much to the relief of his less accommodating Russian partner. Illya would most likely have turned off the stereo and challenged Clarissa Dupont to a staring contest rather than endure music not to his liking. Illya was particular about his music.

Napoleon was, on the other hand, charming and accommodating; traits that belonged almost exclusively to the suave agent now sitting in a room furnished with Danish modern and the unavoidable sound of rock. The girl had been left at home with a nanny while her parents were on a trip to Europe. Although they were trying to get back to New York to be with their daughter, in the interim the nanny had been sent home and replaced by the UNCLE agent.

"Clarissa, sweetheart, do you think we can reduce the volume… just a little?"

Clarissa was bouncing around the room, doing the pony and the jerk simultaneously in a wound up routine that was producing more of a sense of vertigo for Solo. The girl lacked a certain essential quality to her dance: rhythm and coordination. She stopped suddenly, exasperated at the intrusion.

"What? I can't hear you."

Napoleon rose from his seat on the spare sofa and walked to the stereo cabinet, turning off the music with a sigh of relief that Clarissa didn't see.

"Clarissa, as much as I … uh, love your dancing… Let's give it a rest, shall we? I think it might help us to go over your account of the events of last Saturday night. That is why I'm here, after all."

The girl looked the agent up and down, remembering her first encounter with the big grey hallways of that funny building. The old man had been nice to her, sort of reminding her of Grand Papa. She had hoped it would be the cute blond who would be assigned as her bodyguard. That's what Mr. Solo was, right? A bodyguard. She had really hoped it would be the blond…

"Sure, fine… that's cool. So, Mr. Solo, what do you do for fun besides guarding people like me? I mean, do you ever go out and just … let your hair down?"

Very funny. Next time Illya would get this job.

"Clarissa, I am here with you to make certain that what you saw at the Boomer Room doesn't get you in any trouble. You told your father that you witnessed someone being shot, and we think that someone was a diplomat by the name of Ingmar Stuyvesant. We also believe that the man who shot him belongs to an organization called THRUSH."

Clarissa was wrinkling her nose in a manner that suggested either that the narrative was creating a stinky odor, or that she was completely disinterested. Napoleon assumed the latter.

"Listen, Clarissa… I know this may seem boring to you and like last week's news, but the man who shot Mr. Stuyvesant is probably looking for you right now. He won't want a witness to that murder."

That seemed to garner a little more attention from the somewhat vacuous girl. Danger.

"You mean like in Rear Window? I love Jimmy Stewart and … O wow! I could be the Grace Kelly character. You know she's a princess now and not a movie star. Gosh, I wish I looked like Grace Kelly…"

She ended on a wistful note, leaving Napoleon nearly speechless at her utter lack of understanding.

"Clarissa, this isn't a movie sweetheart. It's real. You are in real danger if we don't catch the man who murdered Ingmar Stuyvesant. Do you understand?"

That is when it hit. The emotional turbulence behind all of the frivolous antics and light heartedness suddenly nosedived into the very real trauma of having seen someone shot. No matter that the view had been hazy and her mind not completely focused; Clarissa had seen the shot, watched as Stuyvesant fell to the floor. She was whisked away by a friend who was oblivious to the event, but not before the killer got a glimpse of a young girl with a blonde ponytail being ushered into a waiting limousine.

The killer had memorized the license plate.

Standing here now with the girl in near hysterics, Napoleon wondered once again how his partner would have handled all of this. Illya was a good agent … one of the two best by Solo's estimation. But when it came to crying women there was no contest who best could handle this type of thing.
In the middle of trying to comfort the distraught teenager, a knock sounded at the door of the apartment. It was a coded knock and one that Napoleon recognized immediately as his partner's.

"Here Clarissa, sit down and dry your eyes. I'm going to answer the door."

Clarissa did as she was told, hugging a pillow for comfort. She sniffed, only slightly embarrassed at her lapse in coolness. Napoleon opened the door to find his partner waiting patiently to be admitted. Dressed in his typical black turtleneck and corduroy jeans, the blond entered the room to the approving and welcoming expression on Clarissa's pretty young face. She very quickly released the pillow, perhaps subconsciously expecting the Russian to take its place.

"Hello Napoleon … Miss Dupont." Illya took Napoleon by the elbow and steered him into the adjacent kitchen. Speaking low, he had determined to not let the girl hear this conversation.

"We know who it is. Taylor and Higgs followed him into a dive bar on 42nd Street, but he got away. What they did discover is …' Illya cut his eyes to the girl, a vague sweep that let a twinge of concern cross his expression. "… they overheard him give this address. He is most likely on his way here to … to eliminate the witness."

Napoleon took a deep breath as he closed his eyes and tried to focus everything on a plan of action. He was glad to have Illya at his side in this situation.

"Okay then, we need to make certain that Clarissa is safe. We'll wait for him, take him by surprise hopefully." Illya nodded his agreement.

"I came over ahead of a team. They will be busy securing the outside of the building. We want this man alive, Napoleon. He is most certainly part of a bigger plot against Stuyvesant's government.' He indicated Clarissa with a small gesture. "Where shall we put her?"

Just then the lights went out. Clarissa shrieked in terror, her imagination wild with thoughts of the gunman being close by.
The two agents ran into the living room, aided only by the lights of the city coming in the sliding glass doors that opened onto a large terrace balcony. It wasn't a blackout, only this apartment was affected.

"Illya…"

"I have her. He isn't inside yet, that had to be done from a control room location."

Napoleon was thinking, his mind racing to stay ahead of the killer who was now stalking the three people in this room. "Okay, that means he's on his way here. Get Clarissa … under a bed. That way she can see what's going on and make a run for it if …"

Illya stopped him. "Not if, we will get him, Napoleon.' Grabbing the girl, Illya started pulling her towards a bedroom. "Get under the bed and don't make a sound. We will protect you." Clarissa was caught between terror and total infatuation. Being touched by the Russian sent a shiver up her spine that almost trumped the fear of being killed.

"Th… thank you." As Illya caught her arm to turn her around and push her towards the floor, Clarissa found her courage and kissed him. It was as passionate as she could imagine it to be, although in reality their lips barely met. Illya calmly met her eyes with his.

"Clarissa, I do not know why you did that, but it cannot happen again. Now, get under the bed and do not make a sound. Do you understand?"
Blushing in the dark but thrilled with that brief encounter, she nodded her head and sank to the floor, wiggling into position beneath the low-slung Danish design.

Illya walked back into the living room, aware of every sound and confident that they were still alone. Their quarry, now both prey and hunter, would appear soon enough. Napoleon was positioned behind the kitchen counter with a full view of the front door. Illya took his position next to the stereo where he could see clearly to the sliding glass door. Those were the two points of entry to this apartment, and the only way in for an intruder. It was a full ten minutes before the shadowy image of a man appeared on the balcony. Illya signaled his partner.

Napoleon emerged from the kitchen, keeping to the shadows so that the man outside couldn't see him. Illya remained in his position, ready to take aim if necessary. Slowly the door began to slide open, as the shadow became a man entering the room. His gun was raised in a posture that indicated he would shoot, something mirrored in Illya's position. Napoleon was flattened against the wall just to the right of the door, his intention to disarm their suspect or disable him with the sleep dart he had loaded into the Special.

A scream from the bedroom startled all three armed men. Illya rose from his crouching position in time to catch the bullet from the intruder's pistol, just as Napoleon fired. The assassin fell, a sleep dart instantly going to work.

"Illya!"
"I am fine, it is a scratch. What about Clarissa?"

Napoleon rushed into the bedroom to see what had caused the girl to scream. She was scooting on her stomach in an effort to get out from beneath the bed, her ponytail askew on her head from the struggle.

"Oh, Mr. Solo… I heard the guns." She was crying again, this time with good reason; shots had been fired.

"Clarissa, what made you scream?" An embarrassed grin fought with the tension emanating from Napoleon.
"I thought I saw a spider. I hate spiders…"

A heavy sigh escaped from Napoleon. Illya could have been killed. They all could have been killed. Then again, it did provoke a move from their suspect.

"Okay, Clarissa. It's all over. We have the man and we'll get the lights back on. Everything will be fine, sweetheart."

When the two walked back into the living room they found Illya rifling through the intruder's jacket, looking for some identification or information.
"Anything?" Illya shook his head, a motion that made him slightly dizzy. The bullet might have done more than scratch him. Without warning he toppled over, scaring Clarissa and alerting Napoleon to the fact that his partner was once again the unfortunate victim.

A few hours later, Illya's arm was in a sling, and Napoleon was in the waiting room of a New York hospital with an anxious Clarissa by his side. Someone had called the police at the sound of gunshots and breaking glass, so the UNCLE agents accepted a ride to the hospital that was nearer than HQ. Waiving aside questions, Illya was treated and now, with Clarissa in tow, the two UNCLE agents would head back to Headquarters to give a report to their boss and, hopefully, find that Clarissa's parents were finally back in the country.

As it happened, the Duponts were waiting for their daughter when she arrived at UNCLE Headquarters. Alexander Waverly had been a gracious and accommodating host to the worried couple, and upon seeing the Russian with his arm in a sling, they immediately rushed upon their daughter and smothered her with all the concern their wandering hearts could convey. Next time they toured Europe, Clarissa would accompany them.
The family departed, with Clarissa flinging one final love struck look at Illya, while mouthing a silent thank you at Mr. Solo. Each man waived goodbye, hopeful to not repeat this type of duty anytime soon.

Mr. Waverly summoned the meeting to order with a clearing of his throat that signaled the need to pay attention.

"Gentlemen, we have some information on our assassin. It seems he does indeed have ties to THRUSH. Apparently there is some interest on the part of the Hierarchy in establishing a base of operations in Sweden's most remote regions. Mr. Stuyvesant was, it seems, aware of this and about to take action to thwart any such activity. For the moment we may have quelled the momentum."

Napoleon looked sideways at his partner, neither man willing yet to interject anything.

"We will watch the situation for now. Mr. Kuryakin, take a day and then report back here for light duty until Medical clears you for the field. Mr. Solo …" Waverly understood the ordeal with a teenage girl might have taken its toll on his top agent. Young girls tended to do that, it seemed.
"You take a day as well. The Duponts were very grateful for your handling of this … um, situation. I will honor their gratitude … for twenty-four hours. That is all, gentlemen. Good day."

Outside the doors of Waverly's office the two men stopped, partly to allow Illya a moment. Loss of blood and painkillers were taking their toll on his ability to keep up his normal pace.

"I'll give you a lift home, Illya. You look about ready to drop."

"Thank you, I accept. Besides, I do not want to be alone in case Clarissa is waiting for me. I am beginning to have an actual fear of teenage girls."
Napoleon guffawed out loud at that. It did seem as though Illya attracted a very young set of admirers. It must be the hair.

"You look like a rock and roll musician, Illya. Get a haircut and you might just start getting dates with grown up women."

"Very funny. Right now I want a date with my pillow. Take me home, Napoleon."

They continued on, through the corridors and out to the little tailor shop, on into the streets of New York.

Tomorrow… or the next day, they would save someone else.

Comments

[laurose8.livejournal.com]

Thanks for the reread of this good fic. The humour is great (She very quickly released the pillow, perhaps subconsciously expecting the Russian to take its place) and so is the suspense.

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

Thanks, as I recall it was a fun piece to write.