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section7mfuThis is a story I wrote back in the summer of 2010, before there was a ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
section7mfu.
It's my take on what happened between Napoleon and Mara after the conclusion of the series Season 2 episode THE NOWHERE AFFAIR.
The story can be found in pdf format on my website here.
But since I know some folks prefer to stay in LJ and not go to outside links for stories, I am reposting it here as well. It will be posted in two parts due to length.
Name:COMING BACK FROM SOMEWHERE (aftertake on the series episode THE NOWHERE AFFAIR)
Genre: GEN
Warnings: Adult Situations
Length: approx 18,150 words
Author’s Note: This is my take on what happened between Napoleon and Mara after the conclusion of the series Season 2 episode THE NOWHERE AFFAIR.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
COMING BACK FROM SOMEWHERE
by LaH
Spring 1966
Sociologists say our “moral compass” is set early on in life, and that – like any compass – it will always point true north. True north in this case being where it is set for us, either intentionally or unintentionally, in childhood. I don’t know if I believe that to be absolute truth, but I do know many educated people who have studied these things for decades account it so. And who am I to argue?
Still, the optimist in me wanted from the beginning to believe that Mara’s case was different. Wanted to believe that her transformation into someone who would see the world much as I did would be fully functional. That nothing Thrush had impressed upon her mind in childhood would stay as part of her innermost being. More fool I. Or rather a romantic fool. You see, I wanted Capsule B to somehow provide magic; but in the end it was just a drug.
Let me clarify immediately that Mara did not turn into some sort of Thrush nightingale, singing a sweet siren song to lull me into complacency as she attempted to turn the tide of my being toward a different moral compass. That is not what happened. That is not who she was. She honestly loved me. And I honestly loved her. We both wanted desperately for our separate lives to become one. We both wanted desperately to be free of loneliness at last. The rub was that somehow we never could make our moral compasses point to the same north.
“Do they really need to debrief me, Napoleon?” Mara asked, eyes round with worry. “I don’t remember much. Nothing specific about what happened at all.”
“It’s just routine, Mara,” I tried to reassure her. “Don’t be nervous.”
It was two days after she had taken that large dosage of Capsule B. We were in U.N.C.L.E. headquarters in New York City. She couldn’t remember what U.N.C.L.E. was. She couldn’t even remember what Thrush was. She knew me and trusted me, so she accepted that U.N.C.L.E. was the “good guys”. But she was scared down to her toenails to be in this “chrome and gunmetal madhouse”.
I earnestly wished I had been able to talk Mr. Waverly out of this medically-enhanced debriefing, but he had been adamant. U.N.C.L.E. had to be sure about her memories… or rather the lack of them. The organization could not afford to have a still-ensconced Thrush operative slyly attaching herself to its North American Chief Enforcement Agent, and Mr. Waverly was well aware this CEA had no intention of leaving the assumedly memory-disoriented Mara alone in her hopefully new life.
“Will you stay with me?” she inquired anxiously.
“I’m afraid not, sweetheart,” I had to tell her outright. “The doctors don’t believe that’s wise. They think you need to be clear of my influence to answer their questions to the best of your ability.”
“I’m scared, Napoleon!”
Of course she was. I remembered all too clearly the effects of Capsule B: the uncertainty, the separation from self, the sense of being completely lost and utterly alone.
“I know,” I comforted her as best I could, “but no one here is out to hurt you, Mara. Please believe me.”
“If, as you say, I was one of the enemy before, why wouldn’t they want to hurt me?”
I sighed. “Just trust me, okay?” was all I could offer by way of guarantee.
She came into my ready embrace and buried her head against my shoulder. “Be here when I get back? Please?”
“Of course,” I pledged as I wrapped my arms more protectively about her, for this was a guarantee I could wholeheartedly offer.
The pneumatic door to my office opened at that moment and Illya entered its inner precincts.
“The doctors are ready for you, Miss Bergand,” my partner stated succinctly.
With a wary look from Illya to me and then back to Illya again, Mara finally nodded shortly and walked uneasily toward my partner. He waved her toward the two Section V men standing just beyond the still open pneumatic door and she passed out into the hall and into the care of the security people.
“That was rather unnecessarily cavalier, don’t you think?” I reproached Illya a bit indignantly as he came further into the precincts of my office, thus allowing the automatic door to slide shut behind him and leaving us in privacy.
Illya shrugged. “I didn’t say or do anything unkind.”
“You just didn’t say or do anything kind,” I shot back. Illya’s attitude toward Mara had been eating at me for the past two days.
“She’s Thrush and I do not owe her any kindness.”
“She was Thrush, and what about what you owe me?”
Illya looked me square in the eye as he demanded, “When did you become so naïve, Napoleon?”
I blinked, confused by his comment and atypically unable to hide it.
“If you are insinuating that she is pretending—”
“No, Napoleon,” said Illya in what I recognized as obvious frustration, frustration it would seem with me. “I am not in any way insinuating that she is faking amnesia, or that her feelings for you are not – in some manner at least – genuine.”
“Then why do you think I am being naïve?” I demanded in my turn.
He sighed, obviously discontent with having to explain this to me. “Why would Mr. Waverly offer Capsule B to her without first ascertaining she had no worthwhile intelligence to provide U.N.C.L.E. regarding Thrush?”
“She was only a medium-level scientist, Illya.”
“Who had complete knowledge of Dr. Tertunian’s computer program and truth drug, since she had worked with him as his second.”
“But we have Tertunian himself. Why seek from Mara information the inventor could and did give us willingly?”
“Think, Napoleon!” Illya all but shouted at me. “Her testimony would provide corroboration. Leave nothing in doubt. But Mr. Waverly forewent that insurance. Don’t you understand why?”
“I guess I don’t,” I admitted, letting the words come out just one side of my mouth.
“You don’t?” pressed Illya. “Or you just don’t want to acknowledge it?”
“Illya…” I began in warning. For my temper was rising, though I was making a noble effort to keep it in check.
“Come on, Napoleon! The Old Man was determined he absolutely was not going to lose you to some Thrush regurgitated version of apple pie and a house with a white picket fence. So he took a calculated risk. You know that’s the truth.”
“And what if it is?” I found myself now shouting at Illya, though shouting in anger is something I rarely do and I couldn’t remember the last time – if ever – I had done that at my partner. “Am I not entitled to a chance for something more than weekend trysts and one-night stands?”
Illya’s face softened. Uncharacteristically for my touch-reluctant partner, he placed an empathetic hand on my shoulder.
“You are entitled, my friend,” he agreed, “but this is not that chance.”
He gave my shoulder a quick squeeze before exiting through the pneumatic door, leaving me standing alone to ponder all he had said.
I don’t know exactly what happened during Mara’s medically-enhanced debriefing. Surely though Mr. Waverly was satisfied that she remembered nothing Thrush-related, and thus considered it “safe enough” for me to be around her. In truth I doubt he was much pleased with the idea of me continuing any sort of romantic involvement with Mara, but at least he didn’t authoritatively bid me to stay away from her. I had known from the beginning this compromise on his part was the best for which I could hope.
Seated in the Old Man’s office with Illya, I listened as Mr. Waverly went over the next steps in Mara’s new life.
“U.N.C.L.E. has arranged for an apartment for her and will pay the necessary upkeep for her living in that establishment until she is at a point where she can manage financially on her own. And don’t even suggest that she stay at your apartment in that meanwhile, Mr. Solo,” Mr. Waverly admonished me sternly. “That is not an option.
“However, the apartment we have procured for Miss Bergand’s use is in the same building as your own. That is a concession I am making in consideration of her current emotional insecurity due to the extent of her amnesia, as well as the possibility that Thrush might send an execution squad after her. It is not a concession I am entirely happy with making as I believe she would benefit most from some independence of her association with you, Mr. Solo. Still, I have made this concession because it seems the kindest thing to do at present, and I have no wish to be unkind to the young woman.”
I bit my lower lip to remain silent. Independence of her association with me? Damn, the woman was in love with me. She had abandoned Thrush for that love. She had taken Capsule B in the hopes of somehow being able to retain that love. She had done these things for me. Didn’t that depth of sacrifice of self count for anything in the Old Man’s estimation? I know it definitely counted for much in mine.
“I take it then, sir, that some standard security measures are to be installed in Miss Bergand’s flat?” questioned Illya in a level tone of voice.
Mr. Waverly nodded. “Mid-level Section II security is what seems warranted in this instance. I want you to see to it, Mr. Kuryakin, that Section V expedites the timeframe of the installation procedures of same. And you are to perform the final checks on that installation yourself.”
Now it was Illya who nodded.
“Mid-level Section II security,” came my unspoken thought. “She would definitely be safer in my apartment with its highest level Section II security devices.”
“She seems to have retained her scientific acumen, so U.N.C.L.E. will orchestrate a teaching position for Miss Bergand at one of the local institutions of higher learning. After having constructed suitable educational credentials for her of course,” Mr. Waverly continued as he glanced at a confidential report on Mara’s debriefing that lay open on his desk.
That was a report I dearly wished to read, but which I knew instinctively would be security-coded as inaccessible to me.
“She is quite spectacularly versed in neuroscience and control systems theory,” the Old Man noted. “Thus this should prove an easy enough forgery for Section IV to get done quickly. Of course no part of her qualifications will specifically reference the broader field of cybernetics that so interests Thrush.”
Mara would probably do well as a teacher, and at least she would be able to cultivate the scientific aptitude that was about all left to her with regard to self after the introduction of the chemical in Capsule B to her brain makeup. I was glad she would at least be allowed that and not be forced to ignore the sciences altogether in favor of some “safer” occupation from U.N.C.L.E.’s standpoint.
“That’s all for the present, gentlemen. You are dismissed, but I will expect your individual reports on this affair on my desk no later than tomorrow morning. And Mr. Solo,” Mr. Waverly felt it necessary to remind me, “you are to check in with Medical for a final determination as to your physical and mental fitness for return to full field duty.”
“Yes sir,” I answered mechanically, my mouth suddenly dry. Though I never looked forward to the mandatory psychiatric/psychological evaluations required after any bout in Thrush captivity, I was particularly dreading them this time around. The mind doctors would of course want to know about everything I had experienced – mentally and emotionally – while under the influence of Capsule B, and honestly I didn’t want to rehash any of that. In truth I really wanted to forget it all …except for what I felt for Mara.
“Don’t look so downhearted,” Illya tried to buoy my spirits once we had escaped the Old Man’s eyes out in the corridor. “The shrinks won’t find your mental prowess wanting, even if they sometimes do think you rather devil-may-care with regard to taking risks.”
“What would you know about it?” I snapped at him unnecessarily, but I was very much on edge. “You’ve never had them mess with your brain the way they did with mine via Capsule B.”
“It was your choice to take it,” Illya forwarded.
“Now who is being naïve?” I countered him. “I was told in no uncertain terms by Mr. Waverly himself that I was to take Capsule B if Thrush managed to get their hands on me. There was no choice involved in the decision.”
I think that frank assertion shocked Illya, though I can’t be certain.
“It is what kept you alive, Napoleon,” he responded in a very quiet voice.
“It kept me scared and uncertain and half-insane with self-doubt,” I responded harshly.
“And Mara was the only anchor you had,” he said still in that very quiet voice, only now it was laced with a new undercurrent of understanding.
“And now I’m the only anchor she has,” I voiced the reality of the situation. “And I’ll be damned if I’ll abandon her because the Old Man thinks she would do better ‘independent of an association’ with me. He doesn’t know what it’s like: floundering around with only partial memories and half a personality after taking Capsule B. He wants to be clinical and professional and provide for the basics of physical survival with his oh-so-ready accommodations for shelter and food and clothing and what-have-you. But human beings in that situation need more than that. They need some inner security, some personal warmth, some decent human contact…”
“Are you forgetting that Mara provided you those things, at least initially, only because she herself was told in no uncertain terms to do so by Thrush?” broke in Illya.
“But it wound up going beyond that for her,” I reminded him.
Illya sighed. “I do realize that, Napoleon, but I still think you are negating pieces of reality in this scenario. She was Thrush; she was doing what Thrush commanded. I admit complex emotions overwhelmed simple orders in the long-run. Still, that doesn’t make the first two pieces of the situation illusory or unimportant.”
“It does to me.”
Illya shook his head. “You are too much the romantic, my friend. It has gotten you into trouble before and I fear this time it will again.”
I shrugged. “I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”
Illya’s lips curved into a thin ghost of a smile at those words, as if my declaration frankly amused him.
“I remember Terbuf,” he stated directly to the point. “How you were used and then blithely tossed aside for a second time by a woman you obviously still loved. The pain in your heart I could see clearly reflected on your face. So let me warn you about something, Napoleon: If this pretty little ex-Thrushbird threatens in any way to do the same, she will answer to me. And, unlike Mr. Waverly, I am not the accommodating sort.”
With that my partner walked away, leaving me with my jaw dropped halfway to the floor.
Despite my misgivings, as it turned out Mara was thrilled with the apartment U.N.C.L.E. provided her in my building. It was a one-bedroom unit with a decent-sized living room and a small eat-in kitchen. Mara was pleased to find it had a bath and a half: one full-sized off the bedroom and a two-piece job off the living room for guests. Why this so much appealed to her I don’t know, but she seemed to consider it a great luxury. There was no balcony or terrace as there was in my larger two bedroom, two full-sized bath unit on a much higher floor, but the lack of outdoor space seemed of no importance to her.
“It’s lovely, Napoleon!” she all but cooed as she toured the not-large space for at least the half-dozenth time. “And it’s really mine?”
“All yours,” I assured her.
She walked to the sofa, picked up one of the throw pillows and hugged it tight against her abdomen as she happily surveyed her domain. “All mine!” she enthused contentedly.
“Of course you might want to change out some of the furnishings eventually,” I remarked as I took note of the outlandish and definitely bold upholstery on one of the end chairs. U.N.C.L.E. likely had got most of the pieces at a good price from a these-haven’t-sold-because-they’re-too-crazy-for-most-folks’-taste warehouse sale.
“Oh no,” Mara stated decisively. “It’s perfect just as it is!”
I chuckled. Couldn’t help myself. She was just so enthusiastic about it all.
“Bet your answer is different after living with this stuff for six months,” I teased.
Her brow furrowed. “Is it not to my taste, Napoleon?” she questioned, suddenly very serious. “I mean what my taste was?”
I felt a chill crawl down my spine at her question. How could I answer that? Honestly I had no clue what her taste had once been. She had been playing a role for my benefit in the Thrush satrapy. Whether how she dressed for me was how she normally dressed for herself I really had no idea.
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that, Mara,” I settled on the most diplomatic response.
“I understand,” she acknowledged with a sigh. And I realized she thought I couldn’t answer because I had been told not to influence her post-Capsule-B self. I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth was I couldn’t answer because I honestly didn’t know.
“Mara,” I ventured as I moved nearer to her and placed an arm about her waist, “don’t dwell on what is gone from the past. It isn’t important.”
Her large blue eyes gazed up into my face.
“I think I know that,” she acquiesced. “I honestly think I do. It’s just…”
I grasped the pillow she yet held against her middle and tossed it onto the sofa so that I could bring both my arms around her and hold her close.
“I know it’s difficult. Believe me I do,” I tried to soothe her. “But I’m here for you, Mara, and I’m not going away.”
She relaxed in my arms, resting her body completely against mine.
“Then you’ll stay the night and help me break in that new bed?” she teasingly invited after a few moments of mutual and contented quiet between us.
“Even though it is sporting that awful passion purple bedspread,” I teased back.
“There’s something to be said for purple passion,” she noted gamely just before she drew my head down to hers and our lips connected in a soul-searing kiss.
It’s a funny thing. Back in that Thrush satrapy in the Nevada desert whenever I had kissed Mara, my brain fogged by Capsule B, I felt as if I was losing myself utterly in her kiss. And that was truly wonderful because it made me feel momentarily safe. Now I could sense Mara losing herself utterly in my kiss, and I hoped I was making her somehow feel just as safe in the moment. I owed that to her.
Her lips broke slowly from mine. Her eyes were shining with an almost incandescent light. Yes, I suppose I could congratulate myself that I had made and did make her feel safe.
“I think,” she regarded me in a playfully assessing manner, “I shall very much like seeing you spread out before me on that passion purple bedspread like a veritable buffet of delights. Yet incongruously,” she switched conversational gears, “that mental image only serves to remind me at this precise moment that I’m starving.”
I gave her a mischievous wink. “And here I thought I was feast enough for all the senses. All right then: For what type of cuisine are you hankering, dear lady? New York has a plethora of tastes ready to thrill your palate.”
“My palate isn’t particular, but my mood is. I would prefer to stay here away from crowds with you alone for company.”
“I imagine I can order in whatever you desire.”
“Whatever I desire?” she playfully batted her eyelashes at me.
“I should think,” I pledged as I found myself instinctively wetting my lips.
“I’ve been told you have quite the reputation, Mr. Solo. Is that true?”
“I am a lover to my bones.”
She laughed again. “I meant quite a reputation as a more than fair cook.”
“Now who would have told you something like that?”
“I like to keep my sources secret.”
“So I suppose my secret is uncovered,” I relented with an exaggerated sigh.
“Oh, I intend to uncover all your secrets, Mr. Solo,” she intimated with a sly smile as she pushed her body breath-close against mine once more.
I knew she was just flirting. I knew the remark had been uttered tongue-in-cheek. Still, it rattled me. And I am not a man easily rattled. Somehow that comment served to remind me she had once been Thrush, and had been very recently employed as a weapon against me. Yet I hid my disquiet with all my usual aplomb; thus I am absolutely certain she had no inkling of it.
I gently freed myself from her embrace as I suggested, “Let’s see with what edibles U.N.C.L.E. has stocked your larder.” At that precise moment, though I would never have admitted it to anyone – truthfully not even to myself, I wanted nothing more than to put a bit of physical distance between us. The memory of Thrush’s plan to use her as bait to lure my own Capsule-B-suppressed memories back out into the open was still too vivid in my mind.
I rummaged through her cupboards, small pantry and refrigerator and found U.N.C.L.E. had done a rather good job of providing her with most foodstuff essentials, as well as some decent cold cuts and a variety of farm-fresh produce. I settled on making a pair of Western omelets for dinner with a tossed green salad on the side.
Mara watched with undisguised interest as I went about the process of cooking the egg dish. “They say the sign of a true cook is the ability to make a good omelet,” she forwarded with another playful smile.
“Guess you’ll soon be able to judge the true nature of my culinary talents for yourself then,” I kept the conversation light. My mind was still more ill-at-ease than I really thought warranted by her previous casual assertion. Yet it continued to haunt me.
We ate our meal at her tiny two-seater dinette, but had to settle for lemonade as a beverage since U.N.C.L.E. had of course not considered wine of any sort as a necessary provision. The talk was good-naturedly coy, proving equally as enjoyable as the meal as I purposely buried my nagging and wholly irrational sense of uneasiness for the duration.
Afterwards events heated up, as they are wont to do between a man and a woman physically and emotionally attracted to one another, and it wasn’t long before we were “breaking in” that new mattress bought through the auspices of U.N.C.L.E. Mara lay comfortably in my arms once the lovemaking had settled down into sleeping, her body warm and soft and totally familiar.
I don’t know the why of that feeling of familiarity; we hadn’t known each other all that long and had never actually slept together prior to that moment. Oh, we had made love, but it had been necessary in the satrapy for me to leave her room while still under the cover of darkness. And, after the destruction of the Thrush stronghold, the two nights of travel from Nevada to New York had both been spent in the company of others: Mr. Waverly and his regular bodyguards, Illya, Dr. Tertunian, and several Section III operatives seconded as an additional protection unit from the small Las Vegas field office.
I had to admit I liked the feel of her sleeping beside me. I liked the clean, sweet scents of her hair and skin deeply filling my nostrils as I dozed. I liked the idea of waking up to her smile.
All this was flitting through my sleep-fogged brain when an all-too-familiar sound pulled me back to full consciousness: the insistent two-tone of my communicator.
“Solo here,” I answered routinely once having activated the instrument that I grabbed from the bedside table. I had placed it there just prior to the more intimate events unfolding earlier in the evening.
“You are not to sleep there,” came the voice over the communicator’s speaker.
“What?” I questioned in some bewilderment.
“I waited as long as seemed discreet,” responded Illya’s voice, “but the orders Mr. Waverly gave me were all too clear, so I dared not wait any longer.”
“What orders?” I demanded. “What the heck are you babbling about, Illya?”
“You are not to spend the night in Miss Bergand’s apartment under any circumstances, Napoleon,” Illya informed me. “Those are Mr. Waverly’s orders.”
“Illya, have you gone crazy?” I inquired of my partner. “Since when has Mr. Waverly ever cared where I bedded down for the night?”
“Apparently since now,” Illya noted, a hint of exasperation filtering into his voice. Just as apparently, this was not something he wanted to debate with me. “I am waiting upstairs in your apartment, Napoleon, and if you are not up here in ten minutes, I will come down there and physically drag you from her bed. Kuryakin out.”
The communication clicked off from Illya’s end and I was left sitting there, angry and completely befuddled. Nevertheless I knew my partner and his Slavic determination, so I crossly snapped shut my communicator and set about retrieving my clothes and getting dressed with a minimum of fuss. Once that was done, I knelt down next to the side of the bed where Mara was so peacefully sleeping and gently kissed her forehead. Her eyelids fluttered partially open and she smiled up at me.
“I have to go, sweetheart,” I told her simply.
Her brow furrowed. “Do you really have to, Napoleon?”
Her eyes seemed to silently ask whether it was really something I had to do, or just something I wanted to do. Her uncertainty touched my heart and at that moment I think I honestly could have slammed my fist into the Old Man’s face without one iota of regret. But I am an U.N.C.L.E. agent first and foremost. So I put on a calm front and let none of my internal turmoil show on the outside.
“’fraid so, darling,” I drawled out easily, being careful to keep my lips curved in a nonchalant smile. “Duty calls.”
She sighed. “I know I can’t keep you from that,” she conceded, “but I did so hope to share my first night and the morning after with you here in my new home.”
“I know, Mara,” I spoke evenly, my mind all the while churning with rage as to why the Old Man suddenly was seeing fit to interfere in my personal life, “and I am truly sorry. But I really don’t have a choice.”
She reached up and touched my face, gently running her fingers along one side of my jaw. “Well, maybe tomorrow night and the following morning then?” she asked hopefully.
“Maybe,” was all the answer I could give as I brought her fingers to my lips and kissed them lightly. “Sleep well, sweetheart,” I bid as I rose and made my way from the bedroom and then out of her apartment, using my communicator to reset from the outside the standard security locks for her door.
During the short ride in the elevator to the upper floor of the building, my anger gained an ever surer foothold amongst my warring emotions. Thus I will admit I was livid by the time I reached my own apartment and made my way inside. Illya was seated on the sofa in the living room, his stocking feet tucked up beside him on the cushions and his overnight bag clearly in evidence beside his discarded shoes on the floor near the couch. As I turned back to reset my security alarms, I stated sarcastically over my shoulder to him, “Make yourself comfortable. Never let it be said I am less than a considerate host, even when the guest is uninvited.”
“Don’t take it out on the messenger, Napoleon,” he snapped back as he moved his feet to the floor and took up a less relaxed position on the sofa. “This isn’t my idea. I would personally prefer to be spending the night in my own bed rather than in your guest room serving as a combination chaperone and night watchman.”
“Go home, Illya,” I made my point bluntly.
He sighed. “I report to Mr. Waverly same as you, Napoleon. He gave me orders and I’m following through with them.”
“Technically you report to me,” I peevishly reminded him, “and I’m ordering you to go home.”
“And just as technically Waverly’s orders override yours,” he reminded me just as peevishly. “So I’m afraid I can’t oblige you.”
“Why?” I verbally rounded on him.
“I told you; it’s orders,” reiterated Illya in a noticeably clipped cadence of speech.
“I mean why is he doing this? I’m not an adolescent to whom he can assign a curfew like some over-protective parent!”
“He’s hardly treating you like an adolescent,” rejoined Illya with acid-edged irony. “After all, he’s not demanding you forego having sex with the woman; rather that you just forego the more mundane pleasures of remaining overnight in her company. Surely the first non-verboten activity is sufficient to meet your usual needs.”
I stared at him. “If I didn’t know you are currently too annoyed with Mr. Waverly forcing you into the middle of this to monitor what you are saying to me, I would loosen a couple of your teeth with my fist for that remark, Kuryakin. Mara isn’t a weekend dalliance.”
“And I suspect that is the problem,” Illya cooled down the acerbic bite in his tone.
I laughed: a hard, brittle laugh. I couldn’t help it.
“In other words: It’s just fine with the Old Man if I screw half the females in the world, as long as I don’t form any emotional attachment to one of them.”
“You said it; I didn’t,” Illya responded in a quick-fire manner.
I let my anger subside as I rubbed the back of my hand against one side of my jaw, remembering as I did so the recent touch of Mara’s soft fingers there.
“Does he expect you to board in my guest room indefinitely?” I questioned Illya.
“He only mentioned the next few days and that is all I am staying.”
“He doesn’t want her getting too dependent on me,” I ventured.
“More like he doesn’t want you getting too dependent on her.”
I gazed at Illya in some confusion.
“Look Napoleon, he doesn’t want you thinking of being with her as being home. He doesn’t want you thinking of her as…” He hesitated.
“As a wife?” I guessed.
“As a wife, as family, as anything in that vein.”
“I’m not going to marry her, Illya. I’m not even contemplating asking her. Not now anyhow. Not with her life still in limbo.”
“And Mr. Waverly seems to want to ensure your mindset stays that way… for the present at least.”
“U.N.C.L.E. doesn’t own me,” I declared, my chin jutting forward defiantly.
Illya snorted in amusement.
“Oh my friend, your soul is so tied to U.N.C.L.E., you no longer even feel the tight grip of the knots in the ropes.”
“That’s unfair, Illya.”
“That’s truth, whether you want to acknowledge it or not. But that is also a large part of what makes you who you are, and honestly I rather like who you are, Napoleon. Fool that I am, I find that idealism and optimism and intense desire to keep humanity and the world safe that binds you so tightly to U.N.C.L.E. quite endearing.”
“You talk like I am some kind of Don Quixote,” I crankily criticized.
His lips curved in that ghost of a smile of his. “Despite your conscientious self-promotion of a more Don Juan image, that of Don Quixote is surely apt with regard to your inner self. I will admit you are more connected to reality and much more effective in finding concrete ways to forward your ethics than Quixote ever was,” he furthered. “And as well there is more than occasionally a Machiavellian quality to your turn of mind, a personality quirk that certainly didn’t manifest itself in Quixote. Still, if the lance fits to hand…” He finished off his summation with a shrug as he rose to his feet.
“That’s crazy talk,” I protested without much confidence.
“That’s honest talk from he who will ever be your faithful Sancho, my friend,” he countered as he moved to retrieve his bag. “Such is our joint destiny, a destiny designed by our mutual – if differently evolved – dedication to U.N.C.L.E.”
I just stared at him. I couldn’t think of a thing to say in return to that.
He stopped dead and looked me straight in the eye as he noted, “But as to whether Mara is truly your Dulcinea, Napoleon, of that I am afraid I remain as much in doubt as Mr. Waverly.”
Did I have any doubt of that myself? I let the question shift back-and-forth in my mind as I recalled the uncomfortable feeling that had caught me by surprise with Mara’s offhand remark about learning all my secrets. And I found I had no real answer to that question.
“Goodnight, Napoleon,” Illya ended the awkward moment as he grabbed his bag and made his way toward my guest bedroom with rather abrupt alacrity. I suspect he was regretting stating outright, with no rambling obscuring of the verbal edges, as much of the sharp truth as he had.
The next morning I of course made my complaint to Mr. Waverly, though very cautiously. It was an attempt doomed to failure from the onset. Mr. Waverly’s position was firm: Miss Bergand had to learn to function independent of me. Unspoken was the reality that he wanted me to continue to function independent of her.
Two days later Illya and I were off to London on a mission and ultimately wound up in the Brazilian jungle chasing diamond smugglers. Well, to be honest I was carted there in a wooden crate by the thieves themselves, though I did have a very charming lady for company in those cramped quarters. I admit I flirted with said charming lady, but it was never more than that. Flirting is simply in my blood. However, I also have to admit that, after all was said and done, going home to Mara’s arms held a definite appeal. The prospect of having all your body parts scattered along the Amazon by a cannon, a fate that was very nearly mine, can grant a fresh perspective to any randomness in your personal life.
I arrived in New York exhausted from the near-death experience, the humid Brazilian weather and the long journey home. Despite the pleasant possibility of Mara’s company, the first thing I wanted to do when I hit my apartment was take a nice long shower and follow it up with a nice long nap. That agenda was not to be. Mara was waiting for me at the door to my unit and immediately threw herself bodily into my arms, causing me rather abruptly to drop my overnight bag from the sheer impact of her frame connecting with mine.
“Nice to see you too, sweetheart,” I teased her regarding the effusive welcome.
“Napoleon, it’s been so awful without you here!” she voiced her feelings almost frantically.
“I’m sure it was a bit lonely for you, Mara,” I teasingly tempered her overwrought statement as I gently drew her arms from about me, “but surely not awful.”
She of course had no inkling how close I had come to messily dying in Brazil; thus I saw no real reason for all this angst on her part.
Her eyes focused on mine. “When you’re not here,” she tried to explain her emotions, “I feel… abandoned. No one cares if I live or die except you, Napoleon.”
I swallowed hard. I could understand her fears. My own experiences while under the influence of Capsule B had been disconcerting. And I had been under that influence for less than 72 hours, while Mara… Her life would always be this way: never remembering, never being quite sure of anything or anybody.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” I apologized earnestly. But I knew I was apologizing not for being away from her, but rather for what she was enduring and would always have to endure regarding the effects of Capsule B.
She buried her head against my shoulder. “You’re here now;” she said, relief painfully evident in her tone, “that’s all that matters.”
I held her close, my mind a whirl of rational views and irrational impressions. I looked up and noticed Illya leaning against the railing of the stairwell, his arms crossed over his chest.
“I thought we might go to dinner, Napoleon,” my partner said simply, leaving the censure I saw in his posture entirely out of his spoken words. “However, I see that is not a likely scenario this evening. Have a good night.”
He turned to leave by the stairs, which is the way I assumed he had come since I had not encountered him in the elevator on my own way up to this floor.
“Illya, wait,” I entreated him. He did, turning back to face me once more. I drew Mara’s body somewhat apart from mine as I asked, “Have you had dinner yet, sweetheart? If not, perhaps the three of us could make a night out of it.”
“Dinner alone doesn’t hold any charms for me tonight,” Illya voiced his acceptance of the plan without any coaxing from me. “So I’d readily agree to that.”
Mara looked a bit hesitant but finally conceded with an “If that’s what you want, Napoleon.”
My mind unwound into the inviting blanket of this secret reprieve. I would never admit that the idea of having to deal with Mara’s cloying insecurities, knowing as I did their damnable Capsule B source, was something that put my every nerve on edge. I don’t know why. I understood those insecurities; I had dealt with my own version of them not so long ago. Still, they seemed too intensely clingy and guilt-inducing at this moment for me to endure alone, and I was grateful to Illya for somehow understanding that without any actual explanation being needed on my part.
We had dinner at a casual Italian restaurant that was a favorite after-mission haunt of both Illya and myself. The food was delicious, the wine flowed freely, and the conversation was pleasant.
Mara informed us that Waverly had secured a temporary position for her at Rutgers University in New Jersey as a replacement for a professor of neurobiology who was taking a planned sabbatical a bit earlier than originally scheduled. She was to start the following week. Internally I exhaled at this information, knowing that at least the next time I was off on a mission Mara would have much to occupy her mind and thus was unlikely to brood on her own isolation in my absence.
Mara kept in some type of constant contact with me during the entirety of the outing: a hand placed lightly on my arm, the gentle press of a shoulder against mine, fingers slipping into a shirt cuff to stroke my wrist. None of these simple touches were overtly sexual nor were they intended to be. And I have to admit, being a tactile person myself, they barely registered in my consciousness. But I mention them here because Illya later pointed out how Mara seemed noticeably reluctant to be without physical assurance of my presence beside her.
During the course of the evening Mara and Illya got into an intense but definitely friendly discussion about various theories on the origins of certain neurological disorders, not a topic in which I ever realized my partner took such an active interest. But then again it was likely he was simply utilizing his own scientific background to provide a counterpoint to Mara’s during that discussion, so that the dialogue during the evening didn’t wind up focused on topics that excluded her. I was more than grateful to my partner for that consideration of her. However it was during this discourse that an odd topic led to an odd revelation.
Somehow the subject veered toward a psychological disorder with which the nature of our jobs brought Illya and me into all too frequent association: megalomania. Mara forwarded a theory that perhaps there was some physicality within the brain and nervous system that manifested in the disorder. Yet she shied away from labeling any such configuration of brain synapses as defective or abnormal.
“Perhaps,” she presented a rather frightening hypothesis, “it is merely nature’s way of choosing leaders. Of ensuring that one particular being rises above others; a peculiar form of natural evolution.”
I turned to her with wide eyes.
“You don’t really believe that, do you Mara?” I inquired of her in real astonishment.
She shrugged slightly as her fingers delicately traced the map of veins on the inside of the wrist on the hand I currently had resting sideways on the table.
“Let us just say I am open to the possibility,” she replied evenly, “but beyond that I have no particular belief.”
Shortly afterwards, as Mara left us for a visit to the restroom, I stated to Illya, “Now that was a bolt from the blue.”
Illya immediately knew what I was referencing as he noted bluntly, “Was it? She was educated by Thrush after all.”
“But she was never really one of their power-mad hoard, Illya,” I countered him.
“She was nevertheless brought up an elitist immersed in a Thrush vision of the world, schooled from an early age in Thrush ideals.”
“Well, she doesn’t have that value system anymore.”
“Doesn’t she?” Illya challenged. “It’s difficult to reverse the principles learned in childhood, Napoleon. Don’t ignore that truth.”
“She said she had no particular belief in that quarter,” I protested.
“And I would venture to say she said that because she saw what she suggested had shocked you. There is no doubt that, right now at least, she would do anything to ensure you don’t get upset with her. She can’t even bear not being close enough to physically touch you. To lose emotional connection with you is beyond her ability to so much as contemplate right now.”
“Illya,” I began, “you don’t know what it’s like taking Capsule B. How it eats at your self-confidence—”
“I’m not criticizing her, Napoleon,” he interrupted. “I’m just putting forth things straight as I see them, things you are likely too close to the situation to see without personally rounding off the corners.”
There was no further chance for debate between us on this score as Mara returned to the table and we three entered into more innocuous topics of conversation once more.
...continue on to Part 2...
section7mfu.It's my take on what happened between Napoleon and Mara after the conclusion of the series Season 2 episode THE NOWHERE AFFAIR.
The story can be found in pdf format on my website here.
But since I know some folks prefer to stay in LJ and not go to outside links for stories, I am reposting it here as well. It will be posted in two parts due to length.
Name:COMING BACK FROM SOMEWHERE (aftertake on the series episode THE NOWHERE AFFAIR)
Genre: GEN
Warnings: Adult Situations
Length: approx 18,150 words
Author’s Note: This is my take on what happened between Napoleon and Mara after the conclusion of the series Season 2 episode THE NOWHERE AFFAIR.
Napoleon: Do you know where you are?
Mara: Nowhere.
Napoleon: You know who I am?
Mara: Yes.
Napoleon: You remember anything else?
Mara: No.
Napoleon: Then you’re somewhere.
~~~ The Nowhere Affair, THE MAN FROM U.N.C.L.E.
by LaH
Spring 1966
Sociologists say our “moral compass” is set early on in life, and that – like any compass – it will always point true north. True north in this case being where it is set for us, either intentionally or unintentionally, in childhood. I don’t know if I believe that to be absolute truth, but I do know many educated people who have studied these things for decades account it so. And who am I to argue?
Still, the optimist in me wanted from the beginning to believe that Mara’s case was different. Wanted to believe that her transformation into someone who would see the world much as I did would be fully functional. That nothing Thrush had impressed upon her mind in childhood would stay as part of her innermost being. More fool I. Or rather a romantic fool. You see, I wanted Capsule B to somehow provide magic; but in the end it was just a drug.
Let me clarify immediately that Mara did not turn into some sort of Thrush nightingale, singing a sweet siren song to lull me into complacency as she attempted to turn the tide of my being toward a different moral compass. That is not what happened. That is not who she was. She honestly loved me. And I honestly loved her. We both wanted desperately for our separate lives to become one. We both wanted desperately to be free of loneliness at last. The rub was that somehow we never could make our moral compasses point to the same north.
“Do they really need to debrief me, Napoleon?” Mara asked, eyes round with worry. “I don’t remember much. Nothing specific about what happened at all.”
“It’s just routine, Mara,” I tried to reassure her. “Don’t be nervous.”
It was two days after she had taken that large dosage of Capsule B. We were in U.N.C.L.E. headquarters in New York City. She couldn’t remember what U.N.C.L.E. was. She couldn’t even remember what Thrush was. She knew me and trusted me, so she accepted that U.N.C.L.E. was the “good guys”. But she was scared down to her toenails to be in this “chrome and gunmetal madhouse”.
I earnestly wished I had been able to talk Mr. Waverly out of this medically-enhanced debriefing, but he had been adamant. U.N.C.L.E. had to be sure about her memories… or rather the lack of them. The organization could not afford to have a still-ensconced Thrush operative slyly attaching herself to its North American Chief Enforcement Agent, and Mr. Waverly was well aware this CEA had no intention of leaving the assumedly memory-disoriented Mara alone in her hopefully new life.
“Will you stay with me?” she inquired anxiously.
“I’m afraid not, sweetheart,” I had to tell her outright. “The doctors don’t believe that’s wise. They think you need to be clear of my influence to answer their questions to the best of your ability.”
“I’m scared, Napoleon!”
Of course she was. I remembered all too clearly the effects of Capsule B: the uncertainty, the separation from self, the sense of being completely lost and utterly alone.
“I know,” I comforted her as best I could, “but no one here is out to hurt you, Mara. Please believe me.”
“If, as you say, I was one of the enemy before, why wouldn’t they want to hurt me?”
I sighed. “Just trust me, okay?” was all I could offer by way of guarantee.
She came into my ready embrace and buried her head against my shoulder. “Be here when I get back? Please?”
“Of course,” I pledged as I wrapped my arms more protectively about her, for this was a guarantee I could wholeheartedly offer.
The pneumatic door to my office opened at that moment and Illya entered its inner precincts.
“The doctors are ready for you, Miss Bergand,” my partner stated succinctly.
With a wary look from Illya to me and then back to Illya again, Mara finally nodded shortly and walked uneasily toward my partner. He waved her toward the two Section V men standing just beyond the still open pneumatic door and she passed out into the hall and into the care of the security people.
“That was rather unnecessarily cavalier, don’t you think?” I reproached Illya a bit indignantly as he came further into the precincts of my office, thus allowing the automatic door to slide shut behind him and leaving us in privacy.
Illya shrugged. “I didn’t say or do anything unkind.”
“You just didn’t say or do anything kind,” I shot back. Illya’s attitude toward Mara had been eating at me for the past two days.
“She’s Thrush and I do not owe her any kindness.”
“She was Thrush, and what about what you owe me?”
Illya looked me square in the eye as he demanded, “When did you become so naïve, Napoleon?”
I blinked, confused by his comment and atypically unable to hide it.
“If you are insinuating that she is pretending—”
“No, Napoleon,” said Illya in what I recognized as obvious frustration, frustration it would seem with me. “I am not in any way insinuating that she is faking amnesia, or that her feelings for you are not – in some manner at least – genuine.”
“Then why do you think I am being naïve?” I demanded in my turn.
He sighed, obviously discontent with having to explain this to me. “Why would Mr. Waverly offer Capsule B to her without first ascertaining she had no worthwhile intelligence to provide U.N.C.L.E. regarding Thrush?”
“She was only a medium-level scientist, Illya.”
“Who had complete knowledge of Dr. Tertunian’s computer program and truth drug, since she had worked with him as his second.”
“But we have Tertunian himself. Why seek from Mara information the inventor could and did give us willingly?”
“Think, Napoleon!” Illya all but shouted at me. “Her testimony would provide corroboration. Leave nothing in doubt. But Mr. Waverly forewent that insurance. Don’t you understand why?”
“I guess I don’t,” I admitted, letting the words come out just one side of my mouth.
“You don’t?” pressed Illya. “Or you just don’t want to acknowledge it?”
“Illya…” I began in warning. For my temper was rising, though I was making a noble effort to keep it in check.
“Come on, Napoleon! The Old Man was determined he absolutely was not going to lose you to some Thrush regurgitated version of apple pie and a house with a white picket fence. So he took a calculated risk. You know that’s the truth.”
“And what if it is?” I found myself now shouting at Illya, though shouting in anger is something I rarely do and I couldn’t remember the last time – if ever – I had done that at my partner. “Am I not entitled to a chance for something more than weekend trysts and one-night stands?”
Illya’s face softened. Uncharacteristically for my touch-reluctant partner, he placed an empathetic hand on my shoulder.
“You are entitled, my friend,” he agreed, “but this is not that chance.”
He gave my shoulder a quick squeeze before exiting through the pneumatic door, leaving me standing alone to ponder all he had said.
I don’t know exactly what happened during Mara’s medically-enhanced debriefing. Surely though Mr. Waverly was satisfied that she remembered nothing Thrush-related, and thus considered it “safe enough” for me to be around her. In truth I doubt he was much pleased with the idea of me continuing any sort of romantic involvement with Mara, but at least he didn’t authoritatively bid me to stay away from her. I had known from the beginning this compromise on his part was the best for which I could hope.
Seated in the Old Man’s office with Illya, I listened as Mr. Waverly went over the next steps in Mara’s new life.
“U.N.C.L.E. has arranged for an apartment for her and will pay the necessary upkeep for her living in that establishment until she is at a point where she can manage financially on her own. And don’t even suggest that she stay at your apartment in that meanwhile, Mr. Solo,” Mr. Waverly admonished me sternly. “That is not an option.
“However, the apartment we have procured for Miss Bergand’s use is in the same building as your own. That is a concession I am making in consideration of her current emotional insecurity due to the extent of her amnesia, as well as the possibility that Thrush might send an execution squad after her. It is not a concession I am entirely happy with making as I believe she would benefit most from some independence of her association with you, Mr. Solo. Still, I have made this concession because it seems the kindest thing to do at present, and I have no wish to be unkind to the young woman.”
I bit my lower lip to remain silent. Independence of her association with me? Damn, the woman was in love with me. She had abandoned Thrush for that love. She had taken Capsule B in the hopes of somehow being able to retain that love. She had done these things for me. Didn’t that depth of sacrifice of self count for anything in the Old Man’s estimation? I know it definitely counted for much in mine.
“I take it then, sir, that some standard security measures are to be installed in Miss Bergand’s flat?” questioned Illya in a level tone of voice.
Mr. Waverly nodded. “Mid-level Section II security is what seems warranted in this instance. I want you to see to it, Mr. Kuryakin, that Section V expedites the timeframe of the installation procedures of same. And you are to perform the final checks on that installation yourself.”
Now it was Illya who nodded.
“Mid-level Section II security,” came my unspoken thought. “She would definitely be safer in my apartment with its highest level Section II security devices.”
“She seems to have retained her scientific acumen, so U.N.C.L.E. will orchestrate a teaching position for Miss Bergand at one of the local institutions of higher learning. After having constructed suitable educational credentials for her of course,” Mr. Waverly continued as he glanced at a confidential report on Mara’s debriefing that lay open on his desk.
That was a report I dearly wished to read, but which I knew instinctively would be security-coded as inaccessible to me.
“She is quite spectacularly versed in neuroscience and control systems theory,” the Old Man noted. “Thus this should prove an easy enough forgery for Section IV to get done quickly. Of course no part of her qualifications will specifically reference the broader field of cybernetics that so interests Thrush.”
Mara would probably do well as a teacher, and at least she would be able to cultivate the scientific aptitude that was about all left to her with regard to self after the introduction of the chemical in Capsule B to her brain makeup. I was glad she would at least be allowed that and not be forced to ignore the sciences altogether in favor of some “safer” occupation from U.N.C.L.E.’s standpoint.
“That’s all for the present, gentlemen. You are dismissed, but I will expect your individual reports on this affair on my desk no later than tomorrow morning. And Mr. Solo,” Mr. Waverly felt it necessary to remind me, “you are to check in with Medical for a final determination as to your physical and mental fitness for return to full field duty.”
“Yes sir,” I answered mechanically, my mouth suddenly dry. Though I never looked forward to the mandatory psychiatric/psychological evaluations required after any bout in Thrush captivity, I was particularly dreading them this time around. The mind doctors would of course want to know about everything I had experienced – mentally and emotionally – while under the influence of Capsule B, and honestly I didn’t want to rehash any of that. In truth I really wanted to forget it all …except for what I felt for Mara.
“Don’t look so downhearted,” Illya tried to buoy my spirits once we had escaped the Old Man’s eyes out in the corridor. “The shrinks won’t find your mental prowess wanting, even if they sometimes do think you rather devil-may-care with regard to taking risks.”
“What would you know about it?” I snapped at him unnecessarily, but I was very much on edge. “You’ve never had them mess with your brain the way they did with mine via Capsule B.”
“It was your choice to take it,” Illya forwarded.
“Now who is being naïve?” I countered him. “I was told in no uncertain terms by Mr. Waverly himself that I was to take Capsule B if Thrush managed to get their hands on me. There was no choice involved in the decision.”
I think that frank assertion shocked Illya, though I can’t be certain.
“It is what kept you alive, Napoleon,” he responded in a very quiet voice.
“It kept me scared and uncertain and half-insane with self-doubt,” I responded harshly.
“And Mara was the only anchor you had,” he said still in that very quiet voice, only now it was laced with a new undercurrent of understanding.
“And now I’m the only anchor she has,” I voiced the reality of the situation. “And I’ll be damned if I’ll abandon her because the Old Man thinks she would do better ‘independent of an association’ with me. He doesn’t know what it’s like: floundering around with only partial memories and half a personality after taking Capsule B. He wants to be clinical and professional and provide for the basics of physical survival with his oh-so-ready accommodations for shelter and food and clothing and what-have-you. But human beings in that situation need more than that. They need some inner security, some personal warmth, some decent human contact…”
“Are you forgetting that Mara provided you those things, at least initially, only because she herself was told in no uncertain terms to do so by Thrush?” broke in Illya.
“But it wound up going beyond that for her,” I reminded him.
Illya sighed. “I do realize that, Napoleon, but I still think you are negating pieces of reality in this scenario. She was Thrush; she was doing what Thrush commanded. I admit complex emotions overwhelmed simple orders in the long-run. Still, that doesn’t make the first two pieces of the situation illusory or unimportant.”
“It does to me.”
Illya shook his head. “You are too much the romantic, my friend. It has gotten you into trouble before and I fear this time it will again.”
I shrugged. “I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”
Illya’s lips curved into a thin ghost of a smile at those words, as if my declaration frankly amused him.
“I remember Terbuf,” he stated directly to the point. “How you were used and then blithely tossed aside for a second time by a woman you obviously still loved. The pain in your heart I could see clearly reflected on your face. So let me warn you about something, Napoleon: If this pretty little ex-Thrushbird threatens in any way to do the same, she will answer to me. And, unlike Mr. Waverly, I am not the accommodating sort.”
With that my partner walked away, leaving me with my jaw dropped halfway to the floor.
Despite my misgivings, as it turned out Mara was thrilled with the apartment U.N.C.L.E. provided her in my building. It was a one-bedroom unit with a decent-sized living room and a small eat-in kitchen. Mara was pleased to find it had a bath and a half: one full-sized off the bedroom and a two-piece job off the living room for guests. Why this so much appealed to her I don’t know, but she seemed to consider it a great luxury. There was no balcony or terrace as there was in my larger two bedroom, two full-sized bath unit on a much higher floor, but the lack of outdoor space seemed of no importance to her.
“It’s lovely, Napoleon!” she all but cooed as she toured the not-large space for at least the half-dozenth time. “And it’s really mine?”
“All yours,” I assured her.
She walked to the sofa, picked up one of the throw pillows and hugged it tight against her abdomen as she happily surveyed her domain. “All mine!” she enthused contentedly.
“Of course you might want to change out some of the furnishings eventually,” I remarked as I took note of the outlandish and definitely bold upholstery on one of the end chairs. U.N.C.L.E. likely had got most of the pieces at a good price from a these-haven’t-sold-because-they’re-too-crazy-for-most-folks’-taste warehouse sale.
“Oh no,” Mara stated decisively. “It’s perfect just as it is!”
I chuckled. Couldn’t help myself. She was just so enthusiastic about it all.
“Bet your answer is different after living with this stuff for six months,” I teased.
Her brow furrowed. “Is it not to my taste, Napoleon?” she questioned, suddenly very serious. “I mean what my taste was?”
I felt a chill crawl down my spine at her question. How could I answer that? Honestly I had no clue what her taste had once been. She had been playing a role for my benefit in the Thrush satrapy. Whether how she dressed for me was how she normally dressed for herself I really had no idea.
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that, Mara,” I settled on the most diplomatic response.
“I understand,” she acknowledged with a sigh. And I realized she thought I couldn’t answer because I had been told not to influence her post-Capsule-B self. I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth was I couldn’t answer because I honestly didn’t know.
“Mara,” I ventured as I moved nearer to her and placed an arm about her waist, “don’t dwell on what is gone from the past. It isn’t important.”
Her large blue eyes gazed up into my face.
“I think I know that,” she acquiesced. “I honestly think I do. It’s just…”
I grasped the pillow she yet held against her middle and tossed it onto the sofa so that I could bring both my arms around her and hold her close.
“I know it’s difficult. Believe me I do,” I tried to soothe her. “But I’m here for you, Mara, and I’m not going away.”
She relaxed in my arms, resting her body completely against mine.
“Then you’ll stay the night and help me break in that new bed?” she teasingly invited after a few moments of mutual and contented quiet between us.
“Even though it is sporting that awful passion purple bedspread,” I teased back.
“There’s something to be said for purple passion,” she noted gamely just before she drew my head down to hers and our lips connected in a soul-searing kiss.
It’s a funny thing. Back in that Thrush satrapy in the Nevada desert whenever I had kissed Mara, my brain fogged by Capsule B, I felt as if I was losing myself utterly in her kiss. And that was truly wonderful because it made me feel momentarily safe. Now I could sense Mara losing herself utterly in my kiss, and I hoped I was making her somehow feel just as safe in the moment. I owed that to her.
Her lips broke slowly from mine. Her eyes were shining with an almost incandescent light. Yes, I suppose I could congratulate myself that I had made and did make her feel safe.
“I think,” she regarded me in a playfully assessing manner, “I shall very much like seeing you spread out before me on that passion purple bedspread like a veritable buffet of delights. Yet incongruously,” she switched conversational gears, “that mental image only serves to remind me at this precise moment that I’m starving.”
I gave her a mischievous wink. “And here I thought I was feast enough for all the senses. All right then: For what type of cuisine are you hankering, dear lady? New York has a plethora of tastes ready to thrill your palate.”
“My palate isn’t particular, but my mood is. I would prefer to stay here away from crowds with you alone for company.”
“I imagine I can order in whatever you desire.”
“Whatever I desire?” she playfully batted her eyelashes at me.
“I should think,” I pledged as I found myself instinctively wetting my lips.
“I’ve been told you have quite the reputation, Mr. Solo. Is that true?”
“I am a lover to my bones.”
She laughed again. “I meant quite a reputation as a more than fair cook.”
“Now who would have told you something like that?”
“I like to keep my sources secret.”
“So I suppose my secret is uncovered,” I relented with an exaggerated sigh.
“Oh, I intend to uncover all your secrets, Mr. Solo,” she intimated with a sly smile as she pushed her body breath-close against mine once more.
I knew she was just flirting. I knew the remark had been uttered tongue-in-cheek. Still, it rattled me. And I am not a man easily rattled. Somehow that comment served to remind me she had once been Thrush, and had been very recently employed as a weapon against me. Yet I hid my disquiet with all my usual aplomb; thus I am absolutely certain she had no inkling of it.
I gently freed myself from her embrace as I suggested, “Let’s see with what edibles U.N.C.L.E. has stocked your larder.” At that precise moment, though I would never have admitted it to anyone – truthfully not even to myself, I wanted nothing more than to put a bit of physical distance between us. The memory of Thrush’s plan to use her as bait to lure my own Capsule-B-suppressed memories back out into the open was still too vivid in my mind.
I rummaged through her cupboards, small pantry and refrigerator and found U.N.C.L.E. had done a rather good job of providing her with most foodstuff essentials, as well as some decent cold cuts and a variety of farm-fresh produce. I settled on making a pair of Western omelets for dinner with a tossed green salad on the side.
Mara watched with undisguised interest as I went about the process of cooking the egg dish. “They say the sign of a true cook is the ability to make a good omelet,” she forwarded with another playful smile.
“Guess you’ll soon be able to judge the true nature of my culinary talents for yourself then,” I kept the conversation light. My mind was still more ill-at-ease than I really thought warranted by her previous casual assertion. Yet it continued to haunt me.
We ate our meal at her tiny two-seater dinette, but had to settle for lemonade as a beverage since U.N.C.L.E. had of course not considered wine of any sort as a necessary provision. The talk was good-naturedly coy, proving equally as enjoyable as the meal as I purposely buried my nagging and wholly irrational sense of uneasiness for the duration.
Afterwards events heated up, as they are wont to do between a man and a woman physically and emotionally attracted to one another, and it wasn’t long before we were “breaking in” that new mattress bought through the auspices of U.N.C.L.E. Mara lay comfortably in my arms once the lovemaking had settled down into sleeping, her body warm and soft and totally familiar.
I don’t know the why of that feeling of familiarity; we hadn’t known each other all that long and had never actually slept together prior to that moment. Oh, we had made love, but it had been necessary in the satrapy for me to leave her room while still under the cover of darkness. And, after the destruction of the Thrush stronghold, the two nights of travel from Nevada to New York had both been spent in the company of others: Mr. Waverly and his regular bodyguards, Illya, Dr. Tertunian, and several Section III operatives seconded as an additional protection unit from the small Las Vegas field office.
I had to admit I liked the feel of her sleeping beside me. I liked the clean, sweet scents of her hair and skin deeply filling my nostrils as I dozed. I liked the idea of waking up to her smile.
All this was flitting through my sleep-fogged brain when an all-too-familiar sound pulled me back to full consciousness: the insistent two-tone of my communicator.
“Solo here,” I answered routinely once having activated the instrument that I grabbed from the bedside table. I had placed it there just prior to the more intimate events unfolding earlier in the evening.
“You are not to sleep there,” came the voice over the communicator’s speaker.
“What?” I questioned in some bewilderment.
“I waited as long as seemed discreet,” responded Illya’s voice, “but the orders Mr. Waverly gave me were all too clear, so I dared not wait any longer.”
“What orders?” I demanded. “What the heck are you babbling about, Illya?”
“You are not to spend the night in Miss Bergand’s apartment under any circumstances, Napoleon,” Illya informed me. “Those are Mr. Waverly’s orders.”
“Illya, have you gone crazy?” I inquired of my partner. “Since when has Mr. Waverly ever cared where I bedded down for the night?”
“Apparently since now,” Illya noted, a hint of exasperation filtering into his voice. Just as apparently, this was not something he wanted to debate with me. “I am waiting upstairs in your apartment, Napoleon, and if you are not up here in ten minutes, I will come down there and physically drag you from her bed. Kuryakin out.”
The communication clicked off from Illya’s end and I was left sitting there, angry and completely befuddled. Nevertheless I knew my partner and his Slavic determination, so I crossly snapped shut my communicator and set about retrieving my clothes and getting dressed with a minimum of fuss. Once that was done, I knelt down next to the side of the bed where Mara was so peacefully sleeping and gently kissed her forehead. Her eyelids fluttered partially open and she smiled up at me.
“I have to go, sweetheart,” I told her simply.
Her brow furrowed. “Do you really have to, Napoleon?”
Her eyes seemed to silently ask whether it was really something I had to do, or just something I wanted to do. Her uncertainty touched my heart and at that moment I think I honestly could have slammed my fist into the Old Man’s face without one iota of regret. But I am an U.N.C.L.E. agent first and foremost. So I put on a calm front and let none of my internal turmoil show on the outside.
“’fraid so, darling,” I drawled out easily, being careful to keep my lips curved in a nonchalant smile. “Duty calls.”
She sighed. “I know I can’t keep you from that,” she conceded, “but I did so hope to share my first night and the morning after with you here in my new home.”
“I know, Mara,” I spoke evenly, my mind all the while churning with rage as to why the Old Man suddenly was seeing fit to interfere in my personal life, “and I am truly sorry. But I really don’t have a choice.”
She reached up and touched my face, gently running her fingers along one side of my jaw. “Well, maybe tomorrow night and the following morning then?” she asked hopefully.
“Maybe,” was all the answer I could give as I brought her fingers to my lips and kissed them lightly. “Sleep well, sweetheart,” I bid as I rose and made my way from the bedroom and then out of her apartment, using my communicator to reset from the outside the standard security locks for her door.
During the short ride in the elevator to the upper floor of the building, my anger gained an ever surer foothold amongst my warring emotions. Thus I will admit I was livid by the time I reached my own apartment and made my way inside. Illya was seated on the sofa in the living room, his stocking feet tucked up beside him on the cushions and his overnight bag clearly in evidence beside his discarded shoes on the floor near the couch. As I turned back to reset my security alarms, I stated sarcastically over my shoulder to him, “Make yourself comfortable. Never let it be said I am less than a considerate host, even when the guest is uninvited.”
“Don’t take it out on the messenger, Napoleon,” he snapped back as he moved his feet to the floor and took up a less relaxed position on the sofa. “This isn’t my idea. I would personally prefer to be spending the night in my own bed rather than in your guest room serving as a combination chaperone and night watchman.”
“Go home, Illya,” I made my point bluntly.
He sighed. “I report to Mr. Waverly same as you, Napoleon. He gave me orders and I’m following through with them.”
“Technically you report to me,” I peevishly reminded him, “and I’m ordering you to go home.”
“And just as technically Waverly’s orders override yours,” he reminded me just as peevishly. “So I’m afraid I can’t oblige you.”
“Why?” I verbally rounded on him.
“I told you; it’s orders,” reiterated Illya in a noticeably clipped cadence of speech.
“I mean why is he doing this? I’m not an adolescent to whom he can assign a curfew like some over-protective parent!”
“He’s hardly treating you like an adolescent,” rejoined Illya with acid-edged irony. “After all, he’s not demanding you forego having sex with the woman; rather that you just forego the more mundane pleasures of remaining overnight in her company. Surely the first non-verboten activity is sufficient to meet your usual needs.”
I stared at him. “If I didn’t know you are currently too annoyed with Mr. Waverly forcing you into the middle of this to monitor what you are saying to me, I would loosen a couple of your teeth with my fist for that remark, Kuryakin. Mara isn’t a weekend dalliance.”
“And I suspect that is the problem,” Illya cooled down the acerbic bite in his tone.
I laughed: a hard, brittle laugh. I couldn’t help it.
“In other words: It’s just fine with the Old Man if I screw half the females in the world, as long as I don’t form any emotional attachment to one of them.”
“You said it; I didn’t,” Illya responded in a quick-fire manner.
I let my anger subside as I rubbed the back of my hand against one side of my jaw, remembering as I did so the recent touch of Mara’s soft fingers there.
“Does he expect you to board in my guest room indefinitely?” I questioned Illya.
“He only mentioned the next few days and that is all I am staying.”
“He doesn’t want her getting too dependent on me,” I ventured.
“More like he doesn’t want you getting too dependent on her.”
I gazed at Illya in some confusion.
“Look Napoleon, he doesn’t want you thinking of being with her as being home. He doesn’t want you thinking of her as…” He hesitated.
“As a wife?” I guessed.
“As a wife, as family, as anything in that vein.”
“I’m not going to marry her, Illya. I’m not even contemplating asking her. Not now anyhow. Not with her life still in limbo.”
“And Mr. Waverly seems to want to ensure your mindset stays that way… for the present at least.”
“U.N.C.L.E. doesn’t own me,” I declared, my chin jutting forward defiantly.
Illya snorted in amusement.
“Oh my friend, your soul is so tied to U.N.C.L.E., you no longer even feel the tight grip of the knots in the ropes.”
“That’s unfair, Illya.”
“That’s truth, whether you want to acknowledge it or not. But that is also a large part of what makes you who you are, and honestly I rather like who you are, Napoleon. Fool that I am, I find that idealism and optimism and intense desire to keep humanity and the world safe that binds you so tightly to U.N.C.L.E. quite endearing.”
“You talk like I am some kind of Don Quixote,” I crankily criticized.
His lips curved in that ghost of a smile of his. “Despite your conscientious self-promotion of a more Don Juan image, that of Don Quixote is surely apt with regard to your inner self. I will admit you are more connected to reality and much more effective in finding concrete ways to forward your ethics than Quixote ever was,” he furthered. “And as well there is more than occasionally a Machiavellian quality to your turn of mind, a personality quirk that certainly didn’t manifest itself in Quixote. Still, if the lance fits to hand…” He finished off his summation with a shrug as he rose to his feet.
“That’s crazy talk,” I protested without much confidence.
“That’s honest talk from he who will ever be your faithful Sancho, my friend,” he countered as he moved to retrieve his bag. “Such is our joint destiny, a destiny designed by our mutual – if differently evolved – dedication to U.N.C.L.E.”
I just stared at him. I couldn’t think of a thing to say in return to that.
He stopped dead and looked me straight in the eye as he noted, “But as to whether Mara is truly your Dulcinea, Napoleon, of that I am afraid I remain as much in doubt as Mr. Waverly.”
Did I have any doubt of that myself? I let the question shift back-and-forth in my mind as I recalled the uncomfortable feeling that had caught me by surprise with Mara’s offhand remark about learning all my secrets. And I found I had no real answer to that question.
“Goodnight, Napoleon,” Illya ended the awkward moment as he grabbed his bag and made his way toward my guest bedroom with rather abrupt alacrity. I suspect he was regretting stating outright, with no rambling obscuring of the verbal edges, as much of the sharp truth as he had.
The next morning I of course made my complaint to Mr. Waverly, though very cautiously. It was an attempt doomed to failure from the onset. Mr. Waverly’s position was firm: Miss Bergand had to learn to function independent of me. Unspoken was the reality that he wanted me to continue to function independent of her.
Two days later Illya and I were off to London on a mission and ultimately wound up in the Brazilian jungle chasing diamond smugglers. Well, to be honest I was carted there in a wooden crate by the thieves themselves, though I did have a very charming lady for company in those cramped quarters. I admit I flirted with said charming lady, but it was never more than that. Flirting is simply in my blood. However, I also have to admit that, after all was said and done, going home to Mara’s arms held a definite appeal. The prospect of having all your body parts scattered along the Amazon by a cannon, a fate that was very nearly mine, can grant a fresh perspective to any randomness in your personal life.
I arrived in New York exhausted from the near-death experience, the humid Brazilian weather and the long journey home. Despite the pleasant possibility of Mara’s company, the first thing I wanted to do when I hit my apartment was take a nice long shower and follow it up with a nice long nap. That agenda was not to be. Mara was waiting for me at the door to my unit and immediately threw herself bodily into my arms, causing me rather abruptly to drop my overnight bag from the sheer impact of her frame connecting with mine.
“Nice to see you too, sweetheart,” I teased her regarding the effusive welcome.
“Napoleon, it’s been so awful without you here!” she voiced her feelings almost frantically.
“I’m sure it was a bit lonely for you, Mara,” I teasingly tempered her overwrought statement as I gently drew her arms from about me, “but surely not awful.”
She of course had no inkling how close I had come to messily dying in Brazil; thus I saw no real reason for all this angst on her part.
Her eyes focused on mine. “When you’re not here,” she tried to explain her emotions, “I feel… abandoned. No one cares if I live or die except you, Napoleon.”
I swallowed hard. I could understand her fears. My own experiences while under the influence of Capsule B had been disconcerting. And I had been under that influence for less than 72 hours, while Mara… Her life would always be this way: never remembering, never being quite sure of anything or anybody.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” I apologized earnestly. But I knew I was apologizing not for being away from her, but rather for what she was enduring and would always have to endure regarding the effects of Capsule B.
She buried her head against my shoulder. “You’re here now;” she said, relief painfully evident in her tone, “that’s all that matters.”
I held her close, my mind a whirl of rational views and irrational impressions. I looked up and noticed Illya leaning against the railing of the stairwell, his arms crossed over his chest.
“I thought we might go to dinner, Napoleon,” my partner said simply, leaving the censure I saw in his posture entirely out of his spoken words. “However, I see that is not a likely scenario this evening. Have a good night.”
He turned to leave by the stairs, which is the way I assumed he had come since I had not encountered him in the elevator on my own way up to this floor.
“Illya, wait,” I entreated him. He did, turning back to face me once more. I drew Mara’s body somewhat apart from mine as I asked, “Have you had dinner yet, sweetheart? If not, perhaps the three of us could make a night out of it.”
“Dinner alone doesn’t hold any charms for me tonight,” Illya voiced his acceptance of the plan without any coaxing from me. “So I’d readily agree to that.”
Mara looked a bit hesitant but finally conceded with an “If that’s what you want, Napoleon.”
My mind unwound into the inviting blanket of this secret reprieve. I would never admit that the idea of having to deal with Mara’s cloying insecurities, knowing as I did their damnable Capsule B source, was something that put my every nerve on edge. I don’t know why. I understood those insecurities; I had dealt with my own version of them not so long ago. Still, they seemed too intensely clingy and guilt-inducing at this moment for me to endure alone, and I was grateful to Illya for somehow understanding that without any actual explanation being needed on my part.
We had dinner at a casual Italian restaurant that was a favorite after-mission haunt of both Illya and myself. The food was delicious, the wine flowed freely, and the conversation was pleasant.
Mara informed us that Waverly had secured a temporary position for her at Rutgers University in New Jersey as a replacement for a professor of neurobiology who was taking a planned sabbatical a bit earlier than originally scheduled. She was to start the following week. Internally I exhaled at this information, knowing that at least the next time I was off on a mission Mara would have much to occupy her mind and thus was unlikely to brood on her own isolation in my absence.
Mara kept in some type of constant contact with me during the entirety of the outing: a hand placed lightly on my arm, the gentle press of a shoulder against mine, fingers slipping into a shirt cuff to stroke my wrist. None of these simple touches were overtly sexual nor were they intended to be. And I have to admit, being a tactile person myself, they barely registered in my consciousness. But I mention them here because Illya later pointed out how Mara seemed noticeably reluctant to be without physical assurance of my presence beside her.
During the course of the evening Mara and Illya got into an intense but definitely friendly discussion about various theories on the origins of certain neurological disorders, not a topic in which I ever realized my partner took such an active interest. But then again it was likely he was simply utilizing his own scientific background to provide a counterpoint to Mara’s during that discussion, so that the dialogue during the evening didn’t wind up focused on topics that excluded her. I was more than grateful to my partner for that consideration of her. However it was during this discourse that an odd topic led to an odd revelation.
Somehow the subject veered toward a psychological disorder with which the nature of our jobs brought Illya and me into all too frequent association: megalomania. Mara forwarded a theory that perhaps there was some physicality within the brain and nervous system that manifested in the disorder. Yet she shied away from labeling any such configuration of brain synapses as defective or abnormal.
“Perhaps,” she presented a rather frightening hypothesis, “it is merely nature’s way of choosing leaders. Of ensuring that one particular being rises above others; a peculiar form of natural evolution.”
I turned to her with wide eyes.
“You don’t really believe that, do you Mara?” I inquired of her in real astonishment.
She shrugged slightly as her fingers delicately traced the map of veins on the inside of the wrist on the hand I currently had resting sideways on the table.
“Let us just say I am open to the possibility,” she replied evenly, “but beyond that I have no particular belief.”
Shortly afterwards, as Mara left us for a visit to the restroom, I stated to Illya, “Now that was a bolt from the blue.”
Illya immediately knew what I was referencing as he noted bluntly, “Was it? She was educated by Thrush after all.”
“But she was never really one of their power-mad hoard, Illya,” I countered him.
“She was nevertheless brought up an elitist immersed in a Thrush vision of the world, schooled from an early age in Thrush ideals.”
“Well, she doesn’t have that value system anymore.”
“Doesn’t she?” Illya challenged. “It’s difficult to reverse the principles learned in childhood, Napoleon. Don’t ignore that truth.”
“She said she had no particular belief in that quarter,” I protested.
“And I would venture to say she said that because she saw what she suggested had shocked you. There is no doubt that, right now at least, she would do anything to ensure you don’t get upset with her. She can’t even bear not being close enough to physically touch you. To lose emotional connection with you is beyond her ability to so much as contemplate right now.”
“Illya,” I began, “you don’t know what it’s like taking Capsule B. How it eats at your self-confidence—”
“I’m not criticizing her, Napoleon,” he interrupted. “I’m just putting forth things straight as I see them, things you are likely too close to the situation to see without personally rounding off the corners.”
There was no further chance for debate between us on this score as Mara returned to the table and we three entered into more innocuous topics of conversation once more.
...continue on to Part 2...
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Date: 2013-09-02 08:39 pm (UTC)