FIC!
Here we go again:
Title: Secret Words
Author: aneuhaus
Rating: PG (one use of the F-word)
Warnings: Nope
Bored, bored, bored! Waverly was in London, Napoleon was having lunch with the Ugandan prime minister, and Illya was minding the store. He had worked hard to finish up all the pending paper work before his boss had left, just in case, and there was nothing new doing in the labs. Even the insidious T.H.R.U.S.H. seemed to be taking a well deserved holiday; and he was bored, which was not a state that sat well with the constantly industrious Russian. There was nothing left to do but think and, as usual of late, his thoughts turned to his partner.
His partner, for whom he had begun to have unsettling feelings - feelings that, if acted upon, could upset the delicate balance of their partnership, and friendship; and cost him everything of value in his life. The trouble was, Napoleon wouldn’t stop - wouldn’t stop! If the touches and the glances and the occasional innuendo would cease, then Illya would be able to deal with not having the sort of relationship he would like with his handsome, debonair, infuriating partner; but how to tell Napoleon that, without revealing his feelings for him? That was the question.
Illya suddenly remembered his grandmother once telling him that, if he was confused about something, the best course of action was to write it down; sometimes, seeing the situation on paper made it clearer. Since he was stuck at headquarters with nothing to do anyway; he decided that, perhaps, if he wrote a letter to Napoleon, it would exorcise the frustration and allow him to move on. He rolled a sheet of paper into his typewriter, and then hesitated. Such an intimate letter should really be hand written; so he unrolled the paper from the carriage and rifled through his desk until he found a pen.
Dear Napoleon, he began, you will never see this letter, but I find it necessary to write it in order to make sense of the feelings I have been experiencing of late. It is difficult to know where to begin; but begin, I must.
Let me first tell you that, from the moment we met, I have felt a strong attraction to you - not only physically, but also a kinship of thought and feeling I have experienced with no one before. On the surface, no two people on Earth could be as disparate as you and I. However, on the level where one’s being remains what it is from birth to death, on which no teaching or experience can alter it, you and I are virtually the same.
That being said, I also need to tell you that, unbeknownst to you, I have watched you, daily, for years. I watch the way your body moves with grace and vigor, and long to run my hands over it. Would you allow my touch? Would you make beautiful sounds, as a lover would?
What remains is the fact that, rail against it as I may, I have, unwittingly and without malice of forethought, fallen in love with you. There is no reason you should be aware of this, as I have always protected you in the field, deferred to you in the office, and watched your expressions and body language for clues as to your expectations of me. The difference is that, now, I protect you for myself and not for U.N.C.L.E., I defer to you in order to aid you in your advancement, and I watch you for the sheer pleasure it brings me.
Now comes the actual reason I am writing this letter to you; if only the spectre of you that inhabits my mind and heart, to the point that all else becomes secondary, in comparison. The love of you has trapped me on a roller coaster from which there seems no escape. I watch you with others - women, mostly;, but I know that you, like myself, find it difficult to rebuff the advances of a beautiful man, as dangerous as such a liaison can be to our careers and our lives. I watch you woo them, and kiss them, and I wonder what chord they stir in you that I am unable to play.
Then, just when I decide to sink into the oblivion of a bottle or two (or three, or four) of vodka, or the hot softness of an anonymous body, you perform a gesture, or say a word, that stops me cold and makes me wonder which of us is the most blind.
I know you so well, Tovarisch, that I can clearly hear you say, “What are you talking about, Illya?” Let me elucidate.
You called me “Querido” on a public sidewalk where everyone in town knew me, knowing full well what the word signifies. Am I beloved and treasured by you, Napoleon?
You may (or may not) recall that I told you I received a letter from Zia, not long after we returned from that disastrous affair in the Middle East. What I failed to mention is that the letter contained a detailed description of the day you and she came to rescue me from the premier. “You have something that belongs to me,” is forever emblazoned upon my heart. Do I truly belong to you, Napoleon? Do you belong to me in return? If so, could you have spent the next three days with Zia, while I returned to New York alone? I have pondered the dichotomy for hundreds of hours, but the answer is nowhere in sight.
Along with these, and many other examples, exist the abundance of intimate looks and touches I have been forced to endure from you. Pleasant as they are, they do nothing but fan the flames that continually torment me.
There are times, I must admit, when my tongue seems to have a mind of its own. At these times of weakness, it hints at my bitterness toward the hoards of women that share your bed. I have even attempted to tell you, in a cryptic manner, of my feelings.
Perhaps you will recall a time when Mr. Waverly lectured us on the perils of marrying an U.N.C.L.E. agent and, upon his departure, I said to you, “We have each other.” Or, similarly, after Waverly had whisked that lovely Japanese girl away from your promised javelin-throwing stories, I remarked that “I would like to hear your stories any time.” I am certain that you never knew how serious I was on both, or similar, occasions. However, what if you were? Would it make a difference?
The only thing left to say is that these words will remain forever imprisoned on this page; unless, for some incomprehensible reason, you ever declare yourself to have similar feelings for me. I would rather go to my grave with this longing in my heart than to lose you completely, which I fear would be the outcome if you ever suspected what I feel.
Yours Forever,
Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin
While he was trying to decide whether to hide or destroy the insidious evidence he had created, his communicator announced that his presence was urgently required elsewhere. He quickly opened his top desk drawer, slid the letter inside, and closed and locked the drawer before grabbing his jacket and loping out the door. The only sound that remained in the empty office was the slight click of the swinging ring, which was attached to the small key, which was left in the lock of the desk drawer.
As usual, the famine was followed by the feast, so to speak. For the rest of the afternoon, Illya was up to his ass in alligators. At some point, Wanda called from the reception desk with a message from Napoleon. The Ugandan prime minister’s flight had been delayed, and Napoleon would have to remain with him as body guard until he was safely on the plane. Illya gave the phone receiver his ‘that figures’ face before hanging it up and turning back to the map of Antarctica, where he was plotting the last known location of T.H.R.U.S.H.’s nearly completed nuclear device. By eight o’clock that evening, he was so exhausted, he went home and crawled straight into bed without eating, showering, or even brushing his teeth. His only thought, before he fell into a deep slumber, was sympathy for Napoleon; that he was next in line for Alexander Waverly’s job.
The next morning dawned bright and clear, and a little too early for Illya’s taste. He had an eight thirty meeting, so stopped by his office just long enough to check his ‘In’ box for anything urgent. That was when he noticed the key, still fitted snugly in the lock. His heart in his throat, he twisted the key, yanked the drawer open, and gasped with relief when he saw the piece of ecru stationery covered in cursive writing. He glanced up at the clock, which read eight twenty-eight; just enough time to get to the conference room by eight thirty if he ran, which he did.
The meeting was very productive, but Illya only heard what was going on out of the corner of his hear; his mind was on hiding - or destroying - that letter. As soon as adjournment was announced, he ducked out the conference room door and headed directly for his office; where he rushed straight to his desk and unlocked the drawer, pulling the offending document free. Now, what to do with it…
As he was pondering, his eyes fell to the blue-black handwriting on the thick stationery and his heart skipped several beats. The salutation, in extremely familiar cursive, read:
Dearest Illya,
The world receded, and all its consciousness focused entirely on the piece of paper held firmly in Illya’s hand. As much as he wanted to know what the letter said, his eyes seemed glued to that single line. He tried to breathe, only to find his lungs paralyzed. He was excited, hopeful, and terrified. He had faced guns, bombs, poisonous gas, and the worst tortures imaginable; but never had he felt like this: his heart in his dust-dry throat, his legs trembling, and his blood like ice water in his veins. It was fortunate that his chair was directly behind him; he plopped down into it bonelessly, his legs no longer capable of supporting him. Through sheer will power, he managed to draw in a shaky breath, which seemed to restore his mind and body. Finally, he began to read.
Dearest Illya,
Don’t worry about your letter - it’s in a safe place. I found it by accident, and I was pretty sure you didn’t want it to fall into the wrong hands. Being a spy, though, I simply had to read it; and I’m glad I did.
For years, I have suspected that you felt something more for me than friendship. I have, many times, turned to see you looking at me in a most distracting way; I have noticed how I am the only one that is allowed to touch you casually; and, yes, I have heard those provocative things you say.
I will admit that the incidents you mentioned, as well as lots of others, were contrived in an attempt to be certain of your feelings. There have been times when you have flirted mercilessly with me; but, knowing your sense of humor, I could never be sure of your motives.
You may think it strange that I, the Casa Nova of the western world, would be so cautious. The truth is that I have had the very same concerns as you. With very few exceptions, any man or woman I have ever romanced has never represented more of a risk, to me, than a lost night of pleasure or the success of a mission. You, however, are important to me.
Illya stopped reading for a moment and closed his eyes to let the words sink in. If the letter had ended here, he could have happily lived the rest of his life on the basis of that confession. Emboldened, he read on.
You, however, are important to me. From our first mission together, you have always guarded my body; but, over the years, you have also begun to guard my heart and my soul. Yes, I have noticed.
A smile began to grow on the full lips and in the blue eyes.
Our friendship is of great value to me, but I would turn my back on it in a second if it were necessary to keep our partnership secure. A good partnership is a rare treasure, and a certain balance must be maintained. Whatever our personal feelings, the working relationship must come first.
Illya’s rapidly expanding heart began to sink a little, but he pressed on.
That is why I held myself in check for so long (and it wasn’t easy, believe me), because I had to be certain that there would be no disparity between us.
While Illya was re-reading that statement for the third time, the office door slid open. “What the fuck do you want?” was just behind his lips when he looked up to see his partner, casually leaning against the wall, hands in pockets and a shit eating grin on his face.
“I see you found it,” his voice was deep and throaty, and floated through the air between them like a warm mist. “Have you read it yet?”
“Nearly,” Illya all but squeaked, the one word taking what little breath his lungs contained.
Napoleon walked over to stand directly in front of him.
“Well, I got back late last night and wanted to type up my report before I went home, but my typewriter ribbon was shot.” His mouth turned down, in a pout of self sympathy. “I thought you may have an extra one tucked away, since that redhead in supply would give you Waverly’s own desk, if she could. I figured if you did, it would be in that drawer with the lock. I had my lock picks out and ready to go when, lo and behold, I saw the key, just hanging there. Really, Partner Mine, you shouldn’t make things so easy for me.”
The pout turned into a slightly gloating smile.
“Any way,” he continued, “I saw your letter, and felt it only polite to answer it. Since yours was so detailed, I was compelled to include a lot of explanations and so forth, which you can read later. The jist of it, however, is this.”
At that, he placed one hand under each of Illya’s elbows and lifted him gently to his feet. Then, he wrapped his arms around his partner’s waist, pulled him close, and kissed him. It was not one of the artful kisses Illya had witnessed on so many occasions, nor a truly passionate one, but it was full of warmth and tenderness.
Illya, however, could wait for tenderness. His arms came up around Napoleon’s neck, and he began to suck and nibble on the long desired lips, entreating them to part. When they did, he wasted no time; but slid his tongue inside that hot, sweet mouth. After exploring every inch, he drew Napoleon’s tongue inside his own mouth and sucked on it like a man dying of thirst, which was exactly how he had felt for quite some time, now. He had waited so long for the taste and feel of this man, and he couldn’t get enough. Napoleon pushed him back, panting heavily.
“Just in case you didn’t get the message…” he began, but Illya pressed their mouths together once more. It was several minutes before Napoleon spoke again; indeed, had the desire to speak. In fact, when Illya released his mouth, it took him a moment to remember what he wanted to say.
“I have longed for this - for you - for a very long time,” he murmured, “but I need to say this. I need for you to hear me say it, and I need to hear myself say it, in order to make it real to us both. I, too, must admit that I am in love with you; and have been, almost from the start. Now, where were we?”
When Alexander Waverly returned to U.N.C.L.E., New York, the following morning, he was surprised to find that his, normally meticulous, Russian agent had left the previous day’s reports uncompleted. He leaned over his communications desk and pushed a button.
“Miss Rogers,” he said, in his best command voice, “would you please have Mr. Kuryakin come to my office immediately?”
“I’m sorry, Sir,” Lisa Rogers responded, “but he hasn’t reported in yet.”
“I see,” Waverly replied, his tone clearly indicating that he didn’t. “In that case, contact Mr. Solo and have him report, right away, if you please.”
“I’m afraid he isn’t in yet, either, Sir,” his ultra efficient secretary answered. “I don’t think Mr. Kuryakin was feeling well yesterday, Sir. Wanda, at reception, said that Mr. Solo was practically carrying him when they left.”
The bushy eyebrows rose. “Have you tried to reach them on their communicators?”
“Yes, Sir. I tried both of them right after I talked to Wanda. Both devices are on the “Do Not Disturb” setting,” Lisa replied, a hint of worry creeping into her voice.
“Well, I suppose we’ll hear from them as soon as whatever trouble they have encountered is assuaged.” The rumbling voice turned pensive. “You know, Miss Rogers, I have never quite understood why our Section Two agents simply will not take advantage of our medical facilities in situations such as this. I suppose Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin are, as is their wont, administering to one another’s needs,” he said on a sigh.
And, indeed, Napoleon and Illya, as any fly on the wall of Napoleon’s bedroom could attest, were administering to one another; over and over, until they were both exhausted and sleeping in each other’s arms; only to awaken and begin administering again.
Title: Secret Words
Author: aneuhaus
Rating: PG (one use of the F-word)
Warnings: Nope
Bored, bored, bored! Waverly was in London, Napoleon was having lunch with the Ugandan prime minister, and Illya was minding the store. He had worked hard to finish up all the pending paper work before his boss had left, just in case, and there was nothing new doing in the labs. Even the insidious T.H.R.U.S.H. seemed to be taking a well deserved holiday; and he was bored, which was not a state that sat well with the constantly industrious Russian. There was nothing left to do but think and, as usual of late, his thoughts turned to his partner.
His partner, for whom he had begun to have unsettling feelings - feelings that, if acted upon, could upset the delicate balance of their partnership, and friendship; and cost him everything of value in his life. The trouble was, Napoleon wouldn’t stop - wouldn’t stop! If the touches and the glances and the occasional innuendo would cease, then Illya would be able to deal with not having the sort of relationship he would like with his handsome, debonair, infuriating partner; but how to tell Napoleon that, without revealing his feelings for him? That was the question.
Illya suddenly remembered his grandmother once telling him that, if he was confused about something, the best course of action was to write it down; sometimes, seeing the situation on paper made it clearer. Since he was stuck at headquarters with nothing to do anyway; he decided that, perhaps, if he wrote a letter to Napoleon, it would exorcise the frustration and allow him to move on. He rolled a sheet of paper into his typewriter, and then hesitated. Such an intimate letter should really be hand written; so he unrolled the paper from the carriage and rifled through his desk until he found a pen.
Dear Napoleon, he began, you will never see this letter, but I find it necessary to write it in order to make sense of the feelings I have been experiencing of late. It is difficult to know where to begin; but begin, I must.
Let me first tell you that, from the moment we met, I have felt a strong attraction to you - not only physically, but also a kinship of thought and feeling I have experienced with no one before. On the surface, no two people on Earth could be as disparate as you and I. However, on the level where one’s being remains what it is from birth to death, on which no teaching or experience can alter it, you and I are virtually the same.
That being said, I also need to tell you that, unbeknownst to you, I have watched you, daily, for years. I watch the way your body moves with grace and vigor, and long to run my hands over it. Would you allow my touch? Would you make beautiful sounds, as a lover would?
What remains is the fact that, rail against it as I may, I have, unwittingly and without malice of forethought, fallen in love with you. There is no reason you should be aware of this, as I have always protected you in the field, deferred to you in the office, and watched your expressions and body language for clues as to your expectations of me. The difference is that, now, I protect you for myself and not for U.N.C.L.E., I defer to you in order to aid you in your advancement, and I watch you for the sheer pleasure it brings me.
Now comes the actual reason I am writing this letter to you; if only the spectre of you that inhabits my mind and heart, to the point that all else becomes secondary, in comparison. The love of you has trapped me on a roller coaster from which there seems no escape. I watch you with others - women, mostly;, but I know that you, like myself, find it difficult to rebuff the advances of a beautiful man, as dangerous as such a liaison can be to our careers and our lives. I watch you woo them, and kiss them, and I wonder what chord they stir in you that I am unable to play.
Then, just when I decide to sink into the oblivion of a bottle or two (or three, or four) of vodka, or the hot softness of an anonymous body, you perform a gesture, or say a word, that stops me cold and makes me wonder which of us is the most blind.
I know you so well, Tovarisch, that I can clearly hear you say, “What are you talking about, Illya?” Let me elucidate.
You called me “Querido” on a public sidewalk where everyone in town knew me, knowing full well what the word signifies. Am I beloved and treasured by you, Napoleon?
You may (or may not) recall that I told you I received a letter from Zia, not long after we returned from that disastrous affair in the Middle East. What I failed to mention is that the letter contained a detailed description of the day you and she came to rescue me from the premier. “You have something that belongs to me,” is forever emblazoned upon my heart. Do I truly belong to you, Napoleon? Do you belong to me in return? If so, could you have spent the next three days with Zia, while I returned to New York alone? I have pondered the dichotomy for hundreds of hours, but the answer is nowhere in sight.
Along with these, and many other examples, exist the abundance of intimate looks and touches I have been forced to endure from you. Pleasant as they are, they do nothing but fan the flames that continually torment me.
There are times, I must admit, when my tongue seems to have a mind of its own. At these times of weakness, it hints at my bitterness toward the hoards of women that share your bed. I have even attempted to tell you, in a cryptic manner, of my feelings.
Perhaps you will recall a time when Mr. Waverly lectured us on the perils of marrying an U.N.C.L.E. agent and, upon his departure, I said to you, “We have each other.” Or, similarly, after Waverly had whisked that lovely Japanese girl away from your promised javelin-throwing stories, I remarked that “I would like to hear your stories any time.” I am certain that you never knew how serious I was on both, or similar, occasions. However, what if you were? Would it make a difference?
The only thing left to say is that these words will remain forever imprisoned on this page; unless, for some incomprehensible reason, you ever declare yourself to have similar feelings for me. I would rather go to my grave with this longing in my heart than to lose you completely, which I fear would be the outcome if you ever suspected what I feel.
Yours Forever,
Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin
While he was trying to decide whether to hide or destroy the insidious evidence he had created, his communicator announced that his presence was urgently required elsewhere. He quickly opened his top desk drawer, slid the letter inside, and closed and locked the drawer before grabbing his jacket and loping out the door. The only sound that remained in the empty office was the slight click of the swinging ring, which was attached to the small key, which was left in the lock of the desk drawer.
As usual, the famine was followed by the feast, so to speak. For the rest of the afternoon, Illya was up to his ass in alligators. At some point, Wanda called from the reception desk with a message from Napoleon. The Ugandan prime minister’s flight had been delayed, and Napoleon would have to remain with him as body guard until he was safely on the plane. Illya gave the phone receiver his ‘that figures’ face before hanging it up and turning back to the map of Antarctica, where he was plotting the last known location of T.H.R.U.S.H.’s nearly completed nuclear device. By eight o’clock that evening, he was so exhausted, he went home and crawled straight into bed without eating, showering, or even brushing his teeth. His only thought, before he fell into a deep slumber, was sympathy for Napoleon; that he was next in line for Alexander Waverly’s job.
The next morning dawned bright and clear, and a little too early for Illya’s taste. He had an eight thirty meeting, so stopped by his office just long enough to check his ‘In’ box for anything urgent. That was when he noticed the key, still fitted snugly in the lock. His heart in his throat, he twisted the key, yanked the drawer open, and gasped with relief when he saw the piece of ecru stationery covered in cursive writing. He glanced up at the clock, which read eight twenty-eight; just enough time to get to the conference room by eight thirty if he ran, which he did.
The meeting was very productive, but Illya only heard what was going on out of the corner of his hear; his mind was on hiding - or destroying - that letter. As soon as adjournment was announced, he ducked out the conference room door and headed directly for his office; where he rushed straight to his desk and unlocked the drawer, pulling the offending document free. Now, what to do with it…
As he was pondering, his eyes fell to the blue-black handwriting on the thick stationery and his heart skipped several beats. The salutation, in extremely familiar cursive, read:
Dearest Illya,
The world receded, and all its consciousness focused entirely on the piece of paper held firmly in Illya’s hand. As much as he wanted to know what the letter said, his eyes seemed glued to that single line. He tried to breathe, only to find his lungs paralyzed. He was excited, hopeful, and terrified. He had faced guns, bombs, poisonous gas, and the worst tortures imaginable; but never had he felt like this: his heart in his dust-dry throat, his legs trembling, and his blood like ice water in his veins. It was fortunate that his chair was directly behind him; he plopped down into it bonelessly, his legs no longer capable of supporting him. Through sheer will power, he managed to draw in a shaky breath, which seemed to restore his mind and body. Finally, he began to read.
Dearest Illya,
Don’t worry about your letter - it’s in a safe place. I found it by accident, and I was pretty sure you didn’t want it to fall into the wrong hands. Being a spy, though, I simply had to read it; and I’m glad I did.
For years, I have suspected that you felt something more for me than friendship. I have, many times, turned to see you looking at me in a most distracting way; I have noticed how I am the only one that is allowed to touch you casually; and, yes, I have heard those provocative things you say.
I will admit that the incidents you mentioned, as well as lots of others, were contrived in an attempt to be certain of your feelings. There have been times when you have flirted mercilessly with me; but, knowing your sense of humor, I could never be sure of your motives.
You may think it strange that I, the Casa Nova of the western world, would be so cautious. The truth is that I have had the very same concerns as you. With very few exceptions, any man or woman I have ever romanced has never represented more of a risk, to me, than a lost night of pleasure or the success of a mission. You, however, are important to me.
Illya stopped reading for a moment and closed his eyes to let the words sink in. If the letter had ended here, he could have happily lived the rest of his life on the basis of that confession. Emboldened, he read on.
You, however, are important to me. From our first mission together, you have always guarded my body; but, over the years, you have also begun to guard my heart and my soul. Yes, I have noticed.
A smile began to grow on the full lips and in the blue eyes.
Our friendship is of great value to me, but I would turn my back on it in a second if it were necessary to keep our partnership secure. A good partnership is a rare treasure, and a certain balance must be maintained. Whatever our personal feelings, the working relationship must come first.
Illya’s rapidly expanding heart began to sink a little, but he pressed on.
That is why I held myself in check for so long (and it wasn’t easy, believe me), because I had to be certain that there would be no disparity between us.
While Illya was re-reading that statement for the third time, the office door slid open. “What the fuck do you want?” was just behind his lips when he looked up to see his partner, casually leaning against the wall, hands in pockets and a shit eating grin on his face.
“I see you found it,” his voice was deep and throaty, and floated through the air between them like a warm mist. “Have you read it yet?”
“Nearly,” Illya all but squeaked, the one word taking what little breath his lungs contained.
Napoleon walked over to stand directly in front of him.
“Well, I got back late last night and wanted to type up my report before I went home, but my typewriter ribbon was shot.” His mouth turned down, in a pout of self sympathy. “I thought you may have an extra one tucked away, since that redhead in supply would give you Waverly’s own desk, if she could. I figured if you did, it would be in that drawer with the lock. I had my lock picks out and ready to go when, lo and behold, I saw the key, just hanging there. Really, Partner Mine, you shouldn’t make things so easy for me.”
The pout turned into a slightly gloating smile.
“Any way,” he continued, “I saw your letter, and felt it only polite to answer it. Since yours was so detailed, I was compelled to include a lot of explanations and so forth, which you can read later. The jist of it, however, is this.”
At that, he placed one hand under each of Illya’s elbows and lifted him gently to his feet. Then, he wrapped his arms around his partner’s waist, pulled him close, and kissed him. It was not one of the artful kisses Illya had witnessed on so many occasions, nor a truly passionate one, but it was full of warmth and tenderness.
Illya, however, could wait for tenderness. His arms came up around Napoleon’s neck, and he began to suck and nibble on the long desired lips, entreating them to part. When they did, he wasted no time; but slid his tongue inside that hot, sweet mouth. After exploring every inch, he drew Napoleon’s tongue inside his own mouth and sucked on it like a man dying of thirst, which was exactly how he had felt for quite some time, now. He had waited so long for the taste and feel of this man, and he couldn’t get enough. Napoleon pushed him back, panting heavily.
“Just in case you didn’t get the message…” he began, but Illya pressed their mouths together once more. It was several minutes before Napoleon spoke again; indeed, had the desire to speak. In fact, when Illya released his mouth, it took him a moment to remember what he wanted to say.
“I have longed for this - for you - for a very long time,” he murmured, “but I need to say this. I need for you to hear me say it, and I need to hear myself say it, in order to make it real to us both. I, too, must admit that I am in love with you; and have been, almost from the start. Now, where were we?”
When Alexander Waverly returned to U.N.C.L.E., New York, the following morning, he was surprised to find that his, normally meticulous, Russian agent had left the previous day’s reports uncompleted. He leaned over his communications desk and pushed a button.
“Miss Rogers,” he said, in his best command voice, “would you please have Mr. Kuryakin come to my office immediately?”
“I’m sorry, Sir,” Lisa Rogers responded, “but he hasn’t reported in yet.”
“I see,” Waverly replied, his tone clearly indicating that he didn’t. “In that case, contact Mr. Solo and have him report, right away, if you please.”
“I’m afraid he isn’t in yet, either, Sir,” his ultra efficient secretary answered. “I don’t think Mr. Kuryakin was feeling well yesterday, Sir. Wanda, at reception, said that Mr. Solo was practically carrying him when they left.”
The bushy eyebrows rose. “Have you tried to reach them on their communicators?”
“Yes, Sir. I tried both of them right after I talked to Wanda. Both devices are on the “Do Not Disturb” setting,” Lisa replied, a hint of worry creeping into her voice.
“Well, I suppose we’ll hear from them as soon as whatever trouble they have encountered is assuaged.” The rumbling voice turned pensive. “You know, Miss Rogers, I have never quite understood why our Section Two agents simply will not take advantage of our medical facilities in situations such as this. I suppose Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin are, as is their wont, administering to one another’s needs,” he said on a sigh.
And, indeed, Napoleon and Illya, as any fly on the wall of Napoleon’s bedroom could attest, were administering to one another; over and over, until they were both exhausted and sleeping in each other’s arms; only to awaken and begin administering again.