A Friend in Need~sequel to an Attitude of Gratitude

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Illya Kuryakin was sitting at his desk in headquarters, finishing up the last of the overdue reports before he left for the holiday.  There were no pressing assignments and for that reason Alexander Waverly gave his two top agents a few days off that happened to run into Thanksgiving.

Napoleon was spending the holiday with his family out on Long Island, and would have invited Illya, but the last time he did that all hell had broken loose with Napoleon’s father, Darius Solo.




The man detested Illya, spouting the usual anti-communist rhetoric that day. To end the tension, Illya took a cab home.

The next day when Napoleon returned to headquarters, he was flushed with embarrassment at his father’s behavior, and wanted to take Illya out to dinner to make up for it.

The Russian’s refusal of free food was an unexpected surprise to his partner.

Illya had once told his friend Claire down at the Bowery Mission that ‘Thanksgiving is not just about having a turkey dinner, it is for giving thanks for what one has, but it is more than that. It is about appreciating what we have and who we have in our lives.’ He told her he did not need a big turkey dinner to be grateful.”

She smiled and told him he had an ‘attitude of gratitude.’ *

So here Illya was, alone again with Thanksgiving approaching, and thinking of Claire made him decide to go to the Mission again to lend a helping hand. He felt a bit guilty as he’d not been there in a long time, not because he didn’t want to go, but because he couldn’t.  U.N.C.L.E. had been keeping him very busy.

His telephone rang, calling him from his planning.

“Kuryakin.”

“Yes sir,” the operator replied, “I have an outside call for you from a Mr. Rocky Lopresti.”

Illya recognized that name instantly as one of Claire’s regular helpers.

“Hello Rocky, how are you? Your call could not have been timed more perfectly as I had just decided to come see you all at the Mission.”

There was silence on the other end.

“Rocky, are you there?”

“Mr. K,” Rocky sobbed, “We gotta big problem, Miss Claire, she gone missing.”

“Calm down Rocky, now explain everything to me very slowly please.”

He heard the man sniffle and clear his throat. Rocky had once been a professional boxer, but had taken too many hits to the head and now was quite slow on the uptake, though retained his common sense.

“Miss Claire, she didn’t come in yes-ter-day, and she didn’t come in to-day. We tried calling her tel-e-phone number but she didn’t answer and we kept calling and calling. Mr. K she could be sick or somefing.”

“Calm down Rocky. You did the right thing by calling me, now did anyone go to Miss Claire’s apartment?”

“No Mr. K ‘cause we dunno where she lives.”

Illya cocked his head. “Oh, that is a good reason. I will go check on her as I know where Miss Claire lives.”

“What do we do Mr. K?”

“Do what you always do as if Miss Claire is there, prepare the meals for those who need them.  Is Darla still a volunteer?”

“Yes sir. She’s here, wanna talk to her?”

“No, I want you to tell Darla I said to go into the pantry and start making up the food bags for Thanksgiving. I know she has done that before so she knows how to do it. Is that clear?”

“Yes Mr. K.”

“All right Rocky, go do your job and I will call you shortly.”

“Shortly?”

Illya had forgotten just how slow Rocky was. “I will call you at one o’clock. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir, one o’clock.”

“All right Rocky, you can hang up now.”

“Yes Mr. K....bye.”

“Goodbye Rocky.”

Illya hung up the receiver and immediately put on his jacket and wool peacoat, abandoning the last of the reports on Napoleon’s desk.  He left headquarters in a rush, taking a taxi to where Claire lived on the fifth floor of an old walk up just off Delancey Street.

Illya hurried up the stairs to her apartment located at the end of the hall. When he reached it, slightly out of breath, he found the door was ajar. Instantly his Walther was drawn from his shoulder holster and he held the gun in front of him as his left hand touched the door, slowly pushing it open.

The place was a mess, looking as though it had been ransacked and a living room window was wide open with the curtains fluttering in the cold November breeze.  

“Chyort,” he swore. It was the window with the broken lock...he had told her to get it fixed and now he cursed himself for not doing it for her.”

“Claire?” He called her name, then a second time saying it louder. There was no sign of her in the bedroom or the bath.

Lastly he walked into the kitchen, finding her laying on the linoleum floor with a small pool of blood near her head.

Illya holstered his gun, kneeling at her side, feeling for a pulse and thankfully there was one.

“Claire,” he said her name again, and this time she responded with a moan.

“Stay still, you have a head injury. He examined her further for any other injuries, and found her left arm broken as well.

He rose, heading straight for the wall phone, called for an ambulance, and after hanging up, he returned to her side.

She tried to sit up, but stopped herself with another moan.

“That wasn’t a good idea,” she mumbled, reaching to touch her head, but he stopped her.

“What happened ?” He asked her.

“A burglar came through the window and I tried to fight him off....he took the money, all the money we had for buying food and blankets for the mission. It’s all gone and we won’t have enough for Thanksgiving.”

“Calm yourself. Right now we need to get you to a hospital. You have been unconscious for nearly two days.” He looked at her reassuringly as he held her hand.

“I am sure you will soon be well enough.”

“But Illya I gotta be there, they need help.”

“Everything is well in hand. It was Rocky who called to tell me you were missing. I gave he and Darla instructions on what to do, and that was, to do what they do every day. Cook and serve the meals.  Darla is preparing the bags of canned goods.”

“Wow, you did that and came to my rescue too?  Illya if I was twenty... thirty years younger,” she stuttered, “I would mmmarry you.”

He blushed, giving her a shy smile. “Now dearest, I could never keep up with a woman like you.”

The ambulance arrived, whisking Claire off to Wyckoff Hospital in Brooklyn; Illya rode with her, never letting go of her hand.

While waiting for her to be brought up from recovery, he found a payphone and called the Bowery Mission at exactly one o’clock, telling Rocky to spread the word that Miss Claire had an accident but would be fine, though she would have to be in the hospital for a bit.

Illya had to hold the receiver away from his ears as Rocky and the others started to scream their joy.

Once done with that task, he waited at her bedside until she awoke from her surgery.

“Hello, my friend,” his blue eyes greeted her warmly as she came to.

“Mmm, hello. What time and day is it?”

“It is nearly seven in the evening, November 27th.”

“Ohmygawd! It’s the day before Thanksgiving...the Mission!”

“Will survive without you,” he smiled, brushing his hand against her cheek.

“But the money?”

“Claire, do you trust me?”

“I do Illya, but it’s the day before...”

“I will take care of things, now you just relax and let your body heal.” He gently lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it before he tucked it under the blanket.

He turned before heading out the door. “I will be back, I promise.”

Illya Kuryakin took a taxi to headquarters and immediately started hitting up his fellow workers for donations to replace the Mission money that had been stolen. The last person he asked was the Old Man himself, who pulled out his billfold, raising his bushy eyebrows as his Russian hinted at a large donation.

How could he refuse such a worthy cause for this Miss Claire and the Bowery Mission?  He handed a hundred dollar bill to his number two agent.

“Thank you sir, and Happy Thanksgiving to you.”

“And to you as well from me and Mrs. Waverly, Mr. Kuryakin.” He was quite pleased as to how much this particular agent had become better socialized.

Illya gathered a few of the ladies from the Secretarial pool and took them on a mission; they needed to find any sort of grocery store that was open late and stock up with supplies for Thanksgiving.  The blankets and other things he would find on Friday, even though he knew that day signalled the beginning of the Christmas shopping season and the stores would no doubt be bedlam.

The money he had collected was double what had been stolen, so that would not only mean extra blankets but toys as well for the children who visited the Mission.

The next day Illya arrived at four in the morning with the purchased supplies and turkeys loaded in one of UNCLE’s vans. Rocky, Darla and the rest of the volunteers were there waiting for him, and cheered when he opened the truck doors, revealing the food.

They unloaded it all and everyone set about their tasks of preparing Thanksgiving dinner for the countless lost souls, and those down on their luck who would come through those familiar red doors of the Bowery Mission.

Illya found an apron and helped as best he could with the preparations, as he wasn’t much of a cook. Though they told him he did good at making the mashed potatoes.

He spent the rest of the day serving the hearty and hot meals and when the last person ate and left, he locked the doors. Everyone pitched in cleaning up and one by one they all left, happy with a job well done.

The last thing Illya did was prepare two plates to go, wrapping them in aluminum foil. He took a taxi to the hospital, returning to Claire and together they shared their Thanksgiving meal like they had when they first met at the Mission.*

He proudly told her of the generosity of his co-workers, and his plans to shop for the blankets and toys.

“Illya, you’re my hero. You saved me and Thanksgiving. How can I ever repay you?”

“Claire, there is no repayment required. We are friends and friends help each other in time of need. All we have to do is be thankful for our friendship and for those who watch our backs.”

“Amen to that my Russian friend,” she smiled. “Spacibo.”

“Ah very good, you are learning more Russian,” he smiled at her.

They continued chatting for  a while until  she closed her eyes when the tryptophan in the turkey meat to finally made her doze off, and that was when he left Illya left.  His last stop before heading home was to Claire’s apartment where cleaned up the mess, and repaired the lock on the window, closed the curtains and left a light on to deter any other unwanted visitors.

Once home to his quiet but cold apartment, he reset his alarm...thinking he would install one at Claires  before she returned home.  He finally fell asleep on his bed, still fully clothed.

The next day, Illya arrived in his office, making preparations to be off on his shopping spree.

The doors opened quietly, with Napoleon walking in looking quite refreshed.

“Hey, rough night?” He commented. ”You look a bit tired.”

“No more that usual.” Illya looked over his reading glasses resting on the end of his nose.

“How was your Thanksgiving tovarisch? I hope you didn’t spend it alone in a Chinese restaurant, or worse still, at home with take out from said Chinese restaurant?”

“It was fine,” and that was all Illya said on the subject, hiding his smile.

“Chinese food?” Napoleon cringed at that thought, still feeling a bit guilty for the incident at his family's home a few years ago.

“No, turkey with all the trimmings.” The Russian answered, returning his gaze to the piece of paper he had been jotting notes on. "No, turkey with all the trimmings,"the Russian answered, returning his gaze to the piece of paper he had been jotting notes on.

"Oh good, I'm gland it worked out for you." he said, guessing one of the secretaries might have invited him over for Thanksgiving.

Illya said nothing.

Napoleon shrugged, sensing his partner was in one of his less than talkative moods. He spotted the unfinished reports on his desk and stifled a groan. He thought Illya had said he’d complete them, but then again fair was fair. He’d asked that of his friend too many times and sat down at his desk to work on them.

His preoccupied partner said nothing, put away his glasses and headed out the door with a rather long list in his hands...


* ref “An Attitude of Gratitude”