Fic
You have been warned...
Title: An Introduction
Author: Me!
Rating: G (What is wrong with me?)
Warnings: None, unless you have a set in stone idea of our boys' history and development, about which I seem to have developed an unending fascination.
Summary: See above
I have been alone for most of my life. My mother was a midwife. On countless nights I would awaken from a nightmare to find that Mama was in someone else’s home, delivering their joyful burden.
My father left for the war when I was seven, and never returned, so I barely remember him. What I do recall was a gentle bear of a man on whose broad shoulders I spent a good deal of time.
Mama laughingly scolded that I would never learn to walk properly if Papa never allowed my feet to touch the floor. Papa would become very serious and tell her that I would have to stand on my own two feet for most of my life, so now would be my time to be carried for a little while.
There was a baby sister at some point; but the brevity of her life, and my young age at the time, made her unmemorable. My mother died of influenza when I was ten and, during her long illness, I was more of a mother to her than she to me.
The point is that one gets used to one’s life, no matter the circumstances. Besides, alone doesn’t necessarily mean lonely.
I have seen the tender and compassionate look in peoples’ eyes when they learn the circumstances of my life - raised, educated, and used by the state to their own ends. I cannot say that I have never taken advantage of the sympathies of others in order to profit myself or my masters - actually, I have learned that particular tactic very well. I would elaborate, but almost every situation I could relate involves someone whose existence would only be improved by having me hunted down and killed; so I keep my silence and my life.
Do not misunderstand. By no means do I come from a humble background. My father was a much decorated and highly esteemed officer in the Russian army. My mother was distantly related to royalty; although, in the political uncertainty into which I was born, such things were not discussed around little ears that could not discern what should and should not be repeated outside the home. It is all for the best, I suppose. When the KGB asked if I knew of anyone who may be a threat to Lenin’s grand scheme, I could honestly say “No.”
Being aware of my father’s great intelligence and my mother’s talents in music and languages, I was thoroughly tested once I was remanded to the state home. All of my father’s wealth had been seized by the government - because there was no adult heir, it was said - but I was given a small monthly allowance and permitted to live in relative comfort; then attend the University of Georgia, and then later, Cambridge and the Sorbonne. I wanted to major in languages, but I was told that I would prefer a subject that better fitted my aptitude, such as quantum mechanics. I picked up the languages on my own, any way.
At Cambridge, I met a most lovely young woman, named Clarice, with green eyes and waist length black hair. I can’t say what was special about her, but I suppose what I fell into was love. She was very sweet and demure, but also very passionate; and made the most amazing noises when she climaxed. We were together for nearly six months. Oh, the plans we made. I gave her my gold baby ring, which my mother had given to me in a tiny wooden box, just before she died. Clarice gave me her father’s wedding band, which he had given to her under the same circumstances.
One day, after classes, I walked to Clarice’s room as usual. Instead of her opening the door in response to my knock, it was the house mother. She handed me a piece of paper, laid her hand briefly on my cheek, and then turned away. Clarice had left me only a note, saying that her brother had come for her and she had gone home. That was all. No reason, no address, no telephone number - nothing. I never heard from her again. Years later, a class mate I ran into told me that she was married to a reverend and had two children. I hope she is very happy.
After Clarice, I learned that aloneness only becomes loneliness when one has a different state of being to which one can compare it. I still wear her father’s ring as a reminder not to allow myself to feel lonely - or anything else - unless it is in the line of duty. It was a most beneficial lesson, because I have never been so alone as I am today.
To show their pride and high regard for my obedience and achievements, I have been “loaned” to the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement - U.N.C.L.E. My first year with this organization was spent in the Northeast office; which was not terrible, since college had already helped me become somewhat acclimated to the European way of life.
I was then sent to Survival School to begin my training as an enforcement operative. That episode, and my opinions on the likes of Jules Cutter, we will leave for another time. Let’s just say that he would have enjoyed a stellar career in the KGB.
I now live in New York City - not only the most American, most capitalistic, most decadent city in the entire world; but one in which the citizens are astoundingly indifferent to one another. In Russia, perfect strangers hug and kiss on the street, as mere greeting; in England, everyone one meets is more than willing to politely discuss the weather; in Paris, everyone shouts at everyone, but at least they notice each other; here, no one pays any attention to anyone at all. In New York City, one could be on fire and the citizens would only stop to warm their hands if it were winter.
I have learned that it is not good to have a Russian name and accent while living in the United States. This flat American way of speaking is nearly impossible to mimic, so I began to cultivate the Cambridge accent, just so I could order my supper or buy shoes without being assaulted; verbally or otherwise. I have had knives at my throat and guns in my back, so the rudeness and outright hatred didn’t bother me; but I was in need of certain goods and services, and altering my speech was the only way to overcome the “better dead than red” mentality. After that, I was fine, as long as people did not hear my name. That is one thing I summarily refuse to change.
Cold. That is what they say about me, pretending they think I don’t hear. They make up names for me, such as Ice Prince and Frosty. What they don’t realize, is that I have learned to cultivate such a personae. Being smaller than average, I have always found it necessary to excel at everything, mental and physical, if I were to have the same opportunities as others my age; causing me to approach every endeavor with a singleness of mind. It is especially critical that I do well here.
If any other UNCLE employee makes a mistake, they face action ranging from a verbal warning, to suspension, to dismissal and deprogramming; which means that they may be forced to take advantage of this country’s unemployment insurance until they can secure another position. I, on the other hand, would be returned to the Soviet Union in disgrace, where I would face far different consequences; including anything from banishment to a Siberian gulag, to being hanged. I was once a guard in a gulag, and I believe I would prefer the latter.
The one positive is that no one bothers me at work. I can spend all day filling out reports, eating lunch in the company cafeteria, combing my hair in the rest room, and no one says a word to me. Even in the lab, where I sometimes help out if there is nothing else to occupy my time, I am left completely to my own devices. Any instructions I may need are written down and placed at my work station. The only time I hear my name spoken - or am referred to in any way - is behind my back. My superior is constantly amazed at how quickly my work is completed. He thinks it is because of my dedication and determination. I don’t tell him it is simply due to the lack of distractions that a modicum of polite social interaction would cause.
Speaking of my boss, he is the exception to the rule. Alexander Waverly is a man of principal and vision. His was the initial idea to bring a Soviet into U.N.C.L.E. in the first place; and he, alone, treats me with dignity and respect. He has even taken me out to dinner on occasion, where we have had interesting and evocative conversations. He constantly speaks of partnering me with another enforcement agent - it being safer, having someone to “watch your back”, to use the local nomenclature. It is my opinion that he is having difficulty finding an agent that can be trusted not to abandon me to the enemy, or unwilling to report me as a casualty of “friendly fire”. I can continue to wait. I much prefer working alone. I know that I can be trusted.
=====================
Hi, there. My name is Napoleon Solo. I am an enforcement agent for the U-N-C… L-E.
I suppose if you were to ask anybody around here about me, the first word out of their mouths would be “charming”. I’m not bragging. That charm is something I’ve spent years perfecting. I wear it like an invisibility cloak so people only see what I want them to see. The real me is not all grace and sophistication. Far from it.
First off, it is believed that I am Italian with, perhaps, a bit of French mixed in there somewhere. Sounds very romantic, doesn’t it? Well, uh, here’s the truth - and if you repeat a word of it, I will kill you.
My great grandfather was a not so well- to-do stone mason in Warsaw. That’s right, I’m Polish. Thank God, Great Granddad finally scraped together enough money to climb aboard that ship and chase the American Dream. The Statue of Liberty must have been an inspiring sight to him, but his first taste of Americana was his passage through Ellis Island; where the, most likely overworked, man who made out his papers either couldn’t spell or understand the name, “Solovinski”; so he shortened it. Since Great Granddad wasn’t able to read or write, it didn’t make any difference to him, so it remained our family name until I came along.
Imagine my surprise, when I enlisted in the Army, to be told by my recruiter that my name was actually “Solo”. I tried to argue, but when he showed me my birth certificate, well… So I, basically, was born at the age of seventeen; a fact that came in handy when I made my current career choice.
I suppose you’re wondering about my first name. The story goes that Great Granddad once saw a portrait of Napoleon Bonaparte in some rich man’s house and asked one of the maids who it was. He was so fascinated by the name that he stuck my grandfather with it. Then, when I was born, my mother being ill with an infection and my father celebrating in some tavern with his buddies, it fell to Popsy - yes, that’s what we called him - to give me a name and register my birth. I suppose he thought it was a great honor he was bestowing upon his first grandson. Too bad he didn’t name me after his father - John.
I was born in the States, so my citizenship was assured. Not so for my mama and papa. Mama worked in a sweat shop, sewing hooks on brassieres, until she died when I was eleven.
Then the war came and Papa made enough money engraving head stones to send me to college. Problem was, I wasn’t interested in any of the majors they had to offer. I didn’t have patience enough to be a scientist, mathematician, or writer; I had no aptitude for music; and the very thought of teaching a room full of kids for the rest of my life gave me the willies. I had aspirations of being a baseball player until I blew out my knee one sunny afternoon, rounding third. I thought Papa would have an apoplexy when I decided to go into law enforcement, but it was the only career that could offer the excitement I craved.
The New York City Police Academy was a lot of fun; but, after I graduated, I quickly got my first lesson in big dog/little dog politics. Long story short, I left a few of New York’s finest in less than pristine condition. I needed protection and a place to hide, and fast.
I have never known how Alexander Waverly found me, but I thank whatever Being looks out for fools and hot heads that he did. For the first time in my life, someone saw my restless mind and unorthodox sense of justice as something that could be honed and channeled into, not only a career, but a hero’s way of life. I was also encouraged to reinvent myself, so as to be unrecognizable to those who had known me before; a chance that I jumped at eagerly. Survival School taught me to control and channel my impetuous and intemperate nature, and use those traits to my benefit.
I have always had a way with the opposite sex. I think it’s because they can see a glimpse of the bad boy behind the smooth exterior. Many men think that women want a man to always be a gentleman - and, in a way, they do - but they like the idea of taming the lion, so to speak; and, believe me, the right person can make this lion purr like a kitten.
Waverly saw that talent, and used it to U.N.C.L.E.’s benefit. I have spent nearly two years doing mostly “honey trap” missions - male and female. I forgot to tell you; he also knew, from the beginning, that I swing both ways. He’s the only person in my current life that knows. It’s been okay, though, because the types of missions I’ve been assigned have kept that particular need satisfied.
Now, though, the “Old Man” says that, with the agency growing the way it is, he’s interested in promoting someone to Chief Enforcement Agent, and he looks pointedly at me. Of course, I’m elated, but that means my, heretofore, company sanctioned “walks on the wild side” will be curtailed. He and I both know that I need experience with other, more dangerous, types of affairs before I can take on a leading role in the organization. Besides, as future CEA, it is imperative for me to avoid any situation the enemy could use to blackmail me; not to mention that the last thing I need is one more run-in with the Boys in Blue, if I get caught en flagrante with a man.
There’s another issue, too. He has also been making noises about giving me a partner, which is something I have never wanted. I told him that all I really need is a secretary. I think he suspected that I meant a blonde, about five-ten, big blue eyes with long lashes, and a tight little ass. He knows me too well.
He countered with what a good idea it is to have someone to rely on when things get tough, or to help out with strategy and such. Two heads are better than one, to coin a phrase. I’m not too excited about the idea, but Waverly is not to be crossed.
=====================
Illya Kuryakin sat alone in Waverly’s office, his calm demeanor belying the butterflies trying to pound their way out of his stomach. Today was the day he would meet his new partner, who was late. He knew the inimitable Napoleon Solo by reputation, of course; he had, seemingly, hatched as CEA and next in line for the position of Number One, Section One. Illya wasn’t intimidated by that, though. His unease stemmed from the fact that, even though Mr. Waverly had assured him that his secret would never be revealed, he found himself intimidated by a man that was reported to be as clever and discerning as his soon-to-be-partner.
He also had some doubts as to whether he could work with the womanizing, shallow, egotistical Solo. After all, this was the man he was supposed to trust with his professional reputation, as well as his life. A lump began to form in his throat just as the door slid open.
=====================
Napoleon stood in front of Waverly’s office door for several minutes, working hard to assume a casual manner. Behind that door sat the man that would share the most important aspects of his life until death they did part - or Waverly separated them, whichever came first.
Finally, deciding that he had wasted enough time; he plastered what he hoped was a jaunty smile on his face and stepped into the unknown. What he didn’t expect to find was a diminutive youth whose striking beauty couldn’t be hidden, even by the ugly green glasses he wore. The young man stood and approached him, right hand held out in greeting.
“I am Illya Kuryakin,” he introduced himself, with a barely-there smile that did something wicked and wonderful to Napoleon’s insides. “I believe we are to work together.”
Long after the acceptable amount of time for a handshake had passed, Napoleon continued to hold onto his new colleague’s large hand; surprised and delighted that Kuryakin hadn’t yanked it away and used it to uppercut his jaw. Warm espresso locked with cool blue, and each saw the truth in the other’s eyes.
Imagine that. It looked as though he had gotten his blond, after all.
Title: An Introduction
Author: Me!
Rating: G (What is wrong with me?)
Warnings: None, unless you have a set in stone idea of our boys' history and development, about which I seem to have developed an unending fascination.
Summary: See above
I have been alone for most of my life. My mother was a midwife. On countless nights I would awaken from a nightmare to find that Mama was in someone else’s home, delivering their joyful burden.
My father left for the war when I was seven, and never returned, so I barely remember him. What I do recall was a gentle bear of a man on whose broad shoulders I spent a good deal of time.
Mama laughingly scolded that I would never learn to walk properly if Papa never allowed my feet to touch the floor. Papa would become very serious and tell her that I would have to stand on my own two feet for most of my life, so now would be my time to be carried for a little while.
There was a baby sister at some point; but the brevity of her life, and my young age at the time, made her unmemorable. My mother died of influenza when I was ten and, during her long illness, I was more of a mother to her than she to me.
The point is that one gets used to one’s life, no matter the circumstances. Besides, alone doesn’t necessarily mean lonely.
I have seen the tender and compassionate look in peoples’ eyes when they learn the circumstances of my life - raised, educated, and used by the state to their own ends. I cannot say that I have never taken advantage of the sympathies of others in order to profit myself or my masters - actually, I have learned that particular tactic very well. I would elaborate, but almost every situation I could relate involves someone whose existence would only be improved by having me hunted down and killed; so I keep my silence and my life.
Do not misunderstand. By no means do I come from a humble background. My father was a much decorated and highly esteemed officer in the Russian army. My mother was distantly related to royalty; although, in the political uncertainty into which I was born, such things were not discussed around little ears that could not discern what should and should not be repeated outside the home. It is all for the best, I suppose. When the KGB asked if I knew of anyone who may be a threat to Lenin’s grand scheme, I could honestly say “No.”
Being aware of my father’s great intelligence and my mother’s talents in music and languages, I was thoroughly tested once I was remanded to the state home. All of my father’s wealth had been seized by the government - because there was no adult heir, it was said - but I was given a small monthly allowance and permitted to live in relative comfort; then attend the University of Georgia, and then later, Cambridge and the Sorbonne. I wanted to major in languages, but I was told that I would prefer a subject that better fitted my aptitude, such as quantum mechanics. I picked up the languages on my own, any way.
At Cambridge, I met a most lovely young woman, named Clarice, with green eyes and waist length black hair. I can’t say what was special about her, but I suppose what I fell into was love. She was very sweet and demure, but also very passionate; and made the most amazing noises when she climaxed. We were together for nearly six months. Oh, the plans we made. I gave her my gold baby ring, which my mother had given to me in a tiny wooden box, just before she died. Clarice gave me her father’s wedding band, which he had given to her under the same circumstances.
One day, after classes, I walked to Clarice’s room as usual. Instead of her opening the door in response to my knock, it was the house mother. She handed me a piece of paper, laid her hand briefly on my cheek, and then turned away. Clarice had left me only a note, saying that her brother had come for her and she had gone home. That was all. No reason, no address, no telephone number - nothing. I never heard from her again. Years later, a class mate I ran into told me that she was married to a reverend and had two children. I hope she is very happy.
After Clarice, I learned that aloneness only becomes loneliness when one has a different state of being to which one can compare it. I still wear her father’s ring as a reminder not to allow myself to feel lonely - or anything else - unless it is in the line of duty. It was a most beneficial lesson, because I have never been so alone as I am today.
To show their pride and high regard for my obedience and achievements, I have been “loaned” to the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement - U.N.C.L.E. My first year with this organization was spent in the Northeast office; which was not terrible, since college had already helped me become somewhat acclimated to the European way of life.
I was then sent to Survival School to begin my training as an enforcement operative. That episode, and my opinions on the likes of Jules Cutter, we will leave for another time. Let’s just say that he would have enjoyed a stellar career in the KGB.
I now live in New York City - not only the most American, most capitalistic, most decadent city in the entire world; but one in which the citizens are astoundingly indifferent to one another. In Russia, perfect strangers hug and kiss on the street, as mere greeting; in England, everyone one meets is more than willing to politely discuss the weather; in Paris, everyone shouts at everyone, but at least they notice each other; here, no one pays any attention to anyone at all. In New York City, one could be on fire and the citizens would only stop to warm their hands if it were winter.
I have learned that it is not good to have a Russian name and accent while living in the United States. This flat American way of speaking is nearly impossible to mimic, so I began to cultivate the Cambridge accent, just so I could order my supper or buy shoes without being assaulted; verbally or otherwise. I have had knives at my throat and guns in my back, so the rudeness and outright hatred didn’t bother me; but I was in need of certain goods and services, and altering my speech was the only way to overcome the “better dead than red” mentality. After that, I was fine, as long as people did not hear my name. That is one thing I summarily refuse to change.
Cold. That is what they say about me, pretending they think I don’t hear. They make up names for me, such as Ice Prince and Frosty. What they don’t realize, is that I have learned to cultivate such a personae. Being smaller than average, I have always found it necessary to excel at everything, mental and physical, if I were to have the same opportunities as others my age; causing me to approach every endeavor with a singleness of mind. It is especially critical that I do well here.
If any other UNCLE employee makes a mistake, they face action ranging from a verbal warning, to suspension, to dismissal and deprogramming; which means that they may be forced to take advantage of this country’s unemployment insurance until they can secure another position. I, on the other hand, would be returned to the Soviet Union in disgrace, where I would face far different consequences; including anything from banishment to a Siberian gulag, to being hanged. I was once a guard in a gulag, and I believe I would prefer the latter.
The one positive is that no one bothers me at work. I can spend all day filling out reports, eating lunch in the company cafeteria, combing my hair in the rest room, and no one says a word to me. Even in the lab, where I sometimes help out if there is nothing else to occupy my time, I am left completely to my own devices. Any instructions I may need are written down and placed at my work station. The only time I hear my name spoken - or am referred to in any way - is behind my back. My superior is constantly amazed at how quickly my work is completed. He thinks it is because of my dedication and determination. I don’t tell him it is simply due to the lack of distractions that a modicum of polite social interaction would cause.
Speaking of my boss, he is the exception to the rule. Alexander Waverly is a man of principal and vision. His was the initial idea to bring a Soviet into U.N.C.L.E. in the first place; and he, alone, treats me with dignity and respect. He has even taken me out to dinner on occasion, where we have had interesting and evocative conversations. He constantly speaks of partnering me with another enforcement agent - it being safer, having someone to “watch your back”, to use the local nomenclature. It is my opinion that he is having difficulty finding an agent that can be trusted not to abandon me to the enemy, or unwilling to report me as a casualty of “friendly fire”. I can continue to wait. I much prefer working alone. I know that I can be trusted.
=====================
Hi, there. My name is Napoleon Solo. I am an enforcement agent for the U-N-C… L-E.
I suppose if you were to ask anybody around here about me, the first word out of their mouths would be “charming”. I’m not bragging. That charm is something I’ve spent years perfecting. I wear it like an invisibility cloak so people only see what I want them to see. The real me is not all grace and sophistication. Far from it.
First off, it is believed that I am Italian with, perhaps, a bit of French mixed in there somewhere. Sounds very romantic, doesn’t it? Well, uh, here’s the truth - and if you repeat a word of it, I will kill you.
My great grandfather was a not so well- to-do stone mason in Warsaw. That’s right, I’m Polish. Thank God, Great Granddad finally scraped together enough money to climb aboard that ship and chase the American Dream. The Statue of Liberty must have been an inspiring sight to him, but his first taste of Americana was his passage through Ellis Island; where the, most likely overworked, man who made out his papers either couldn’t spell or understand the name, “Solovinski”; so he shortened it. Since Great Granddad wasn’t able to read or write, it didn’t make any difference to him, so it remained our family name until I came along.
Imagine my surprise, when I enlisted in the Army, to be told by my recruiter that my name was actually “Solo”. I tried to argue, but when he showed me my birth certificate, well… So I, basically, was born at the age of seventeen; a fact that came in handy when I made my current career choice.
I suppose you’re wondering about my first name. The story goes that Great Granddad once saw a portrait of Napoleon Bonaparte in some rich man’s house and asked one of the maids who it was. He was so fascinated by the name that he stuck my grandfather with it. Then, when I was born, my mother being ill with an infection and my father celebrating in some tavern with his buddies, it fell to Popsy - yes, that’s what we called him - to give me a name and register my birth. I suppose he thought it was a great honor he was bestowing upon his first grandson. Too bad he didn’t name me after his father - John.
I was born in the States, so my citizenship was assured. Not so for my mama and papa. Mama worked in a sweat shop, sewing hooks on brassieres, until she died when I was eleven.
Then the war came and Papa made enough money engraving head stones to send me to college. Problem was, I wasn’t interested in any of the majors they had to offer. I didn’t have patience enough to be a scientist, mathematician, or writer; I had no aptitude for music; and the very thought of teaching a room full of kids for the rest of my life gave me the willies. I had aspirations of being a baseball player until I blew out my knee one sunny afternoon, rounding third. I thought Papa would have an apoplexy when I decided to go into law enforcement, but it was the only career that could offer the excitement I craved.
The New York City Police Academy was a lot of fun; but, after I graduated, I quickly got my first lesson in big dog/little dog politics. Long story short, I left a few of New York’s finest in less than pristine condition. I needed protection and a place to hide, and fast.
I have never known how Alexander Waverly found me, but I thank whatever Being looks out for fools and hot heads that he did. For the first time in my life, someone saw my restless mind and unorthodox sense of justice as something that could be honed and channeled into, not only a career, but a hero’s way of life. I was also encouraged to reinvent myself, so as to be unrecognizable to those who had known me before; a chance that I jumped at eagerly. Survival School taught me to control and channel my impetuous and intemperate nature, and use those traits to my benefit.
I have always had a way with the opposite sex. I think it’s because they can see a glimpse of the bad boy behind the smooth exterior. Many men think that women want a man to always be a gentleman - and, in a way, they do - but they like the idea of taming the lion, so to speak; and, believe me, the right person can make this lion purr like a kitten.
Waverly saw that talent, and used it to U.N.C.L.E.’s benefit. I have spent nearly two years doing mostly “honey trap” missions - male and female. I forgot to tell you; he also knew, from the beginning, that I swing both ways. He’s the only person in my current life that knows. It’s been okay, though, because the types of missions I’ve been assigned have kept that particular need satisfied.
Now, though, the “Old Man” says that, with the agency growing the way it is, he’s interested in promoting someone to Chief Enforcement Agent, and he looks pointedly at me. Of course, I’m elated, but that means my, heretofore, company sanctioned “walks on the wild side” will be curtailed. He and I both know that I need experience with other, more dangerous, types of affairs before I can take on a leading role in the organization. Besides, as future CEA, it is imperative for me to avoid any situation the enemy could use to blackmail me; not to mention that the last thing I need is one more run-in with the Boys in Blue, if I get caught en flagrante with a man.
There’s another issue, too. He has also been making noises about giving me a partner, which is something I have never wanted. I told him that all I really need is a secretary. I think he suspected that I meant a blonde, about five-ten, big blue eyes with long lashes, and a tight little ass. He knows me too well.
He countered with what a good idea it is to have someone to rely on when things get tough, or to help out with strategy and such. Two heads are better than one, to coin a phrase. I’m not too excited about the idea, but Waverly is not to be crossed.
=====================
Illya Kuryakin sat alone in Waverly’s office, his calm demeanor belying the butterflies trying to pound their way out of his stomach. Today was the day he would meet his new partner, who was late. He knew the inimitable Napoleon Solo by reputation, of course; he had, seemingly, hatched as CEA and next in line for the position of Number One, Section One. Illya wasn’t intimidated by that, though. His unease stemmed from the fact that, even though Mr. Waverly had assured him that his secret would never be revealed, he found himself intimidated by a man that was reported to be as clever and discerning as his soon-to-be-partner.
He also had some doubts as to whether he could work with the womanizing, shallow, egotistical Solo. After all, this was the man he was supposed to trust with his professional reputation, as well as his life. A lump began to form in his throat just as the door slid open.
=====================
Napoleon stood in front of Waverly’s office door for several minutes, working hard to assume a casual manner. Behind that door sat the man that would share the most important aspects of his life until death they did part - or Waverly separated them, whichever came first.
Finally, deciding that he had wasted enough time; he plastered what he hoped was a jaunty smile on his face and stepped into the unknown. What he didn’t expect to find was a diminutive youth whose striking beauty couldn’t be hidden, even by the ugly green glasses he wore. The young man stood and approached him, right hand held out in greeting.
“I am Illya Kuryakin,” he introduced himself, with a barely-there smile that did something wicked and wonderful to Napoleon’s insides. “I believe we are to work together.”
Long after the acceptable amount of time for a handshake had passed, Napoleon continued to hold onto his new colleague’s large hand; surprised and delighted that Kuryakin hadn’t yanked it away and used it to uppercut his jaw. Warm espresso locked with cool blue, and each saw the truth in the other’s eyes.
Imagine that. It looked as though he had gotten his blond, after all.