applecameron (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
applecameron) wrote2004-06-06 07:33 pm
applecameron) wrote2004-06-06 07:33 pm
(SV) MUNCLE: "The Garden of Eden Affair" (R)
Title : "The Garden of Eden Affair"
Author : SV. 1999. Reprinted by permission.
Category: standalone
Rating : R
Spoilers: None
keywords: slash, m/m, hurt/comfort, Kuryakin angst, Solo/Kuryakin relationship
disclaim: I do it for love, not money.
Once upon a time -- July 17, 1962 to be precise -- Ilya Kuryakin lay waiting.
The affair had ended badly for him.
Kuryakin's hair was mostly grown out from his disguise of earlier in the year -- a dark, unprepossessing brown, miles from his normal gold. For a long term operation, hair dye had been used instead of the wig a short assignment might have permitted. It had been a significant change, that and the introduction of a lisp to his soft voice made him nearly unrecognizable to even the higher caliber agents of Mother Fear. Unfortunately, painfully, Ilya had gotten quite close to her organization, and in the end, Mother Fear had gotten quite close to him.
UNCLE was making a two-pronged deep reconnaissance, scheduled to last a year or more, to probe the depths of Mother Fear's resources both within and outside her alliance with THRUSH. Napoleon Solo headed the operation on the Paris front, untangling the web of corporations that lead back to one intelligent and treacherous woman. His was the longer, somewhat boring task of getting their investigation of Mother Fear's financial and social ties in Europe off to a comprehensive start. The nature of his side of the operation made it possible for Solo to be pulled back to New York for shorter term assignments, and was considered by many to be preparing the agent for a future branch head position within UNCLE -- a possibility many division leaders in Europe did not find appealing.
Waverly dismissed them all. Solo had the personal charm and social instincts to pull it off, and his staff had stripped New York of some of UNCLE's finest financial inquisitors -- retired US tax investigators.
Ilya, by going deep undercover, was to attempt to insert himself into Mother Fear's organization as a potential supplier of certain services -- explosives, chemical and biological armaments. Posing as the front man of a chemical supply house, he was to negotiate and seal a relationship with agents of Mother Fear, that would put UNCLE in a position to monitor her organization's movements at a discreet distance. After solidifying such a relationship, Ilya would withdraw and be replaced -- but for the subtle aspects of a project to attract an enemy's attention without appearing to try to attract them at all, Kuryakin had the patience and imagination to find the opportunities to make such an attraction happen.
The first two months went like clockwork. Napoleon insinuated himself into the Paris social scene as a financier and womanizer -- a near-perfect cover for him to reel in tasty tidbits on current corporate failings, families, and backdoor dealings.
Ilya disappeared in Africa and resurfaced as Vitaly Ivanov, ex-Soviet Navy with experience in 'exotic' weapons details. He began worming his way north, casting about for opportunities to call himself to the attention of Mother Fear's minions.
And disappeared again.
It wasn't until Kuryakin had missed 5 or 6 chances to contact his home base that UNCLE, that is, Waverly, became worried. The best agents didn't necessarily stay to a timetable -- Ilya may simply have gone under because 'Ivanov' required it. He might even have taken up a job offer -- one of many possibilities discussed but ultimately discarded by UNCLE's brain-trust planning teams. The goal was to build an information conduit, not to place a specific mole into Mother Fear's organization. But it wasn't out of the question, and variables such as these were why such a highly capable agent had been placed in the field to begin with.
He had seen sunlight once. Known from the quality of it that it must have been midday, and that therefore his earlier meal had been breakfast. Assuming that meal had in fact been only a few hours ago -- his sense of time had become unreliable.
It was Napoleon's team who picked up Ilya's scent, confirming that something had gone wrong. An embassy 'cocktail party chum' had let a detail slip, that led to a small holding company, whose board of directors led to a multitude of dead ends and one live one. That live one was seduced before she even knew it.
Her bedtime whisperings led them a further chase and dropped the devastating hint that one of their own had been taken. Whether he had been turned or captured, or both, remained to be seen.
"Drop the charade," she spoke to him in French, although when they met their business had been conducted in German. "I know who you are. I could never forget you, Mr. Kuryakin, in all the sweet ways I've known you how could I possibly forget?" Her choice of phrasing was explicitly sexual. She had thinned somewhat from the last time they met, and Ilya filed away the possiblity of a recent illness for future reference.
He hung, mute.
"You cannot change your body, Mr. Kuryakin, and you could not hide its recognition of me. It is as simple as that. Primal reactions. Primal...responses. Primal fear is my calling card."
He remained mute, feeling his naked abdomen push against the stone of his cell as he breathed in and out, focussing on his body. The hairs standing up on the back of his neck and arms in the chill dungeon. The wetness of his trousers from being splashed with cold water. The bruising and chafing on his wrists, the common complaint of an UNCLE field agent. These manacles didn't help.
Ilya had survived her once, he could do the trick again.
Oriole, for that was the name of Napoleon's current informant, and a fitting one for an unwitting THRUSH pawn, had fallen head over heels in love. She didn't question her new beau's interest in her business affairs, didn't even realize that her pillow games made her the latest in a long string of spies along the outer fringes of THRUSH.
Napoleon didn't like what he was hearing, and he disliked even less reporting it to Waverly. Ilya had been gone for at least a month, possibly as many as two -- there was no pinpointing the exact date of his disappearance. There had been a few subtle hints of an unexpected guest, as Oriole had described it, at the "Belgian office", which they were sure meant one of Mother Fear's facilities. Oriole had actually met Mother Fear, although not under that name, instead describing her as the widow of a German count.
So UNCLE's mission changed from infiltration to penetration and retrieval, but Napoleon's actions remained about the same: seduce, charm, and wrest any information possible, from anyone, anywhere, anytime. He flitted about Europe, vacationing along the Rhine with Oriole, every inch the laughing playboy, and every minute the worried UNCLE agent.
The breakthrough came after one of the longer sessions. Ilya awoke lying on his side, chained only at one leg, on the straw in his cell. He had cried aloud during this last beating, knowing yet hating to admit that he had finally crumpled and pleaded for her to stop. Kuryakin recognized what it meant when Mother Fear merely laid her cool hand on his naked shoulder and murmured soothingly, then instructed her valet to continue.
She had held his face in her hands, their eyes locked as he struggled against the vile attentions of her manservant. Trying not to get lost in her depths, trying to hold onto the pain and remain himself and knowing that he would fail, that he must fail, that he could not fail.
That session had terminated -- as did many -- when Ilya lost consciousness, bound on all fours in Mother Fear's shackles, in what was an otherwise tastefully decorated drawing room, and could not be revived.
He awakened, has he had many times before, back in his cell, somewhat cleaned -- death by infection would not be permitted -- and stiff, cold, and sore beyond belief. Kuryakin had not been able to sleep on his back for quite a long time. Normally he huddled on his side in a small mound of straw, but his neck hurt so greatly that he struggled up to his knees and resolved to stay there, regardless of the pain in his joints the movement caused.
It was at this point that Mother Fear entered his cell and Ilya Kuryakin fled his body. From a distance, he watched more then felt Mother's latest acquisition cringe before her, assuming the position normally forced into by shackles, and trembling, waiting for her touch.
When it came, her hand stroking his hair, he didn't know whether to shriek, orgasm, or cry, and his body opted for all three at once.
Mother Fear made little cooing noises, soothing the shuddering body crouched before her. "It was for your own good, my dear boy."
"Yes, Mother Fear." came the croaked whisper in reply.
From this vantage point, high above his body, Ilya could see her smile. "You know you needed firm discipline before forgiveness."
"Yes, Mother Fear."
"Mother loves you, and you love mother, don't you?"
"Yes, Mother."
"Let's go upstairs to bed, then. Mother forgives you."
The walls of stone around Ilya were tight and small, darkly enclosing him as they had enclosed his body. He struggled now against the manacles of his own flesh, as that flesh rose up and followed Mother Fear calmly and obediently out of the dungeon cell.
Number Two of Section II was either dead, turned, or playing the most dangerous game ever devised. Alexander Waverly hated all three of those possibilities, but that didn't stop him from planning for each one. Napoleon Solo spent a great deal of time jetting back across the Atlantic to 'visit his New York assets', while also searching for 'business opportunities' throughout Europe. 5 months and counting. He spent more time in the air than anywhere else, and, to the dismay of his 'cocktail party chums', the financier playboy Napoleon Statford threw only a few parties a month.
'Vitaly' was a model agent. Bright and showing intiative, he made no attempts to escape. He was obedient to a fault, eager to satisfy Mother Fear's every whim, but suffered from tics, stuttering and once a petite mal seizure when questioned too directly about his UNCLE past. He could not, or would not, speak above a whisper.
And, Mother Fear's newest prodigy was utterly adept at pinpointing and rectifying the security issues that plague any major criminal organization. Mother put him to good use, upgrading systems and even stocking a lab at her residence for his experiments.
As Ilya, he had been an unobtrusive man. As Vitaly, he was nearly invisible. The only noticeable characteristic was his two-toned hair as his blond grew in. He would not bleach it as Mother had suggested. It was the only thing he refused her. In every other way he was her dedicated bodyguard and manservant.
It was the opportunity that UNCLE had been waiting for. After determining the general area of Mother Fear's main base, it was just a matter of pinning down shipments of supplies. Oriole had inadvertantly let slip mention of some equipment upgrades -- all the UNCLE agents had to do was watch the movement of electronic supplies into and out of the region.
Whoever was handling security was the very best, but it was playing against a stacked deck to make large-scale movement of modern equipment into German wine country appear innocuous.
The raid was at dawn.
Napoleon Solo started to pull rank, but Waverly beat him to the punch: "If Ilya lives, find him."
Solo's team held as their first imperative the obliteration of Mother Fear, it was Napoleon only who held the deeper objective, no one else was to search for their lost agent, nor assume his friendliness. Tranquilize On Sight was the order of the day.
They breached security with moderate ease, as the upgrade process had permitted Solo to map much of the systems of Mother Fear's main facility. It was that slim fact that left Napoleon clinging to the hope of Ilya running the deepest cover possible.
The attack went by the numbers, 5 teams converging on the main house with minimal injuries. Napoleon's strike force was a search and destroy targeting Mother Fear's personal staff. They swept through the mansion from east wing to west with D team cleaning up behind them -- A, B, C, and D had arrived from each of the 4 compass points -- only Eagle Team, headed by Solo, roamed the facility at his whim.
'Vitaly' had been on his way to the lab, in the lift, when the lights dimmed. They were under attack.
He popped the hatch in the ceiling and climbed back up the elevator cable, making his way back to Mother Fear's rooms.
A short time later, the quiet man slipped down a deserted hallway and resumed heading for the lower levels of the building. He walked softly, but gave a brief twitch every few steps, as if poked with a pin. His grey uniform was somewhat mussed.
He was standing near the doorway to the cell that had been his when everything went white.
Eagle team had found a laboratory on the premises, and Napoleon recognized several pieces of equipment: a graduated titration tube held a familiar purple liquid, and the labels on glass bottles were in an even more familiar hand. Ilya Kuryakin was alive.
Once upon a time -- July 17, 1962, to be precise -- Ilya Kuryakin lay waiting to die.
Eagle team had split up to search the dungeon levels, freeing prisoners and wreaking as much chaos as humanly possible. Napoleon Solo rounded a corner and shot twice, catching two men, one of them stunningly blond, before they could respond. Both were dressed in the grey uniform of Mother Fear's personal staff.
Solo cursed softly as he turned the blond over and saw it was not Ilya. He had to be there somewhere. Would Mother Fear have imprisoned him for over half a year? What about that laboratory? He hurried deeper into the dungeons.
Ilya saw black-haired death round a corner and almost fire at him. He was prone on the stone floor, gasping and struggling as his body and mind finally gave into a grand mal seizure.
He recognized that face, it was one he had never thought to see again: Napoleon Solo.
"Ilya!" Their lost agent must have been slipped some kind of convulsant, or given an electric shock. He was wearing the grey uniform of Mother Fear.
It was a long time before Napoleon was able to restrain Kuryakin, only then noticing the weight loss, the brown-and-blond hair, the glassy eyes. So many months undercover was too long for even the vaunted Russian.
"She's dead, Ilya. She's dead." He murmured over and over, holding Ilya as close as possible, breathing in the scent of the other man. "I'm here."
Section II was jubilant. A major blow had been struck against THRUSH and its allies. Kuryakin had wormed his way into the middle of Mother Fear's organization and destroyed it completely, at great danger and cost to himself. His electronic 'upgrades' had lead UNCLE to the hidden base, and it was Kuryakin's own hands that had snapped Mother Fear's neck.
Number Two of Section II had been packed off to New York almost immediately after retrieval, firmly esconced in the hands of Medical before Napoleon could even begin closing down the Paris operation. After a week he couldn't stand it anymore, handing over the remainder of the task to his second-in-command, and hopping on a plane. Enough was enough.
He touched down in New York, depositing his suitcases in the office he and Ilya had shared for so long, and made his way down to the ward.
"Mr. Solo! Mr. Solo!" The young orderly did his best to block Napoleon's path. "Please!" Hands up in the air, "Please, sir, Dr. Parker left specific instructions --"
"For what?! I'm here to see Ilya, so get out of the way."
A third voice cut into the fray. "Mr Solo." Napoleon turned and locked eyes with a woman taller then himself. "I left specific instructions for you to speak to me before being permitted," she chose to stress the word lightly, staring Solo down with her dark brown eyes, "permitted, to see your partner." She gestured down the hall, "this will only take a moment."
They took a few steps down the hall and Parker turned to address him. "Mr. Solo."
"He's all right, isn't he?"
She was blunt. Ilya had been in and out of a fugue-like state after several days of catatonia. As anxious, admittedly, as Mr. Waverly and Section II were for a full debriefing, Mr. Kuryakin currently was not often clear on his surroundings and identity. Minor identity crises and bouts of confusion were not uncommon for agents emerging from deep, long-term cover, so something along these lines was not entirely unexpected. Napoleon had suffered from it himself, a perception of disjointedness upon his return to the 'real' world. It simply took time to adjust.
At the moment, he needed to approach his partner as a friend, not a colleague.
With that agreement made, Napoleon opened the indicated door and stepped in. The pale form in the room's lone bed didn't move a muscle. Someone had cut away the last of the brown hair, leaving Ilya his normal blond self. It was about the only thing that looked normal, the rest of the agent was older, gaunt, and far too still.
"Hello."
Ilya's eyes tracked the dark-haired man as he arrived within Kuryakin's field of view.. He was lying on his right side, curled slightly, facing away from the door. Napoleon sat down in the nearby chair, conscious of the silent scrutiny.
As if from a great distance, a slow spark lit behind Ilya's eyes, and after a few tries, he mouthed Napoleon's first name. Solo nodded and leaned very close so that each could drink in the sight of the other.
Kuryakin kept mouthing Solo's name, gradually attaching sound to the event. "Napoleon."
"Yes, Ilya."
"I'm...." Blue eyes broke contact to wander about the room, as if seeing the sterile white walls for the first time. "I'm in Medical." At Napoleon's nod, he ventured to his next conclusion: "I'm alive."
"Yes, Ilya. You're in New York, and you're very much alive." They clasped hands and Solo witnessed the shadow of his partner's smile.
"Mother Fear?"
"Dead. By your hand."
Kuryakin appeared to ponder the information, then nodded as if seeing the memory of her death for the first time. "Ah, yes. So it was."
Solo didn't often exhibit tenderness, but his hand was gentle as he brushed at his partner's hair. There was so much to ask, but he settled for the innocuous. "How do you feel?"
The man seemed to retreat to a distant place before finding the answer, "Vitaly is....dying." The admission seemed to cause great pain, "When he is gone, things will be...easier." Kuryakin squeezed Solo's hand companionably and closed his eyes.
Obviously, re-integrating his role as Vitaly, associate of Mother Fear, into his normal behaviour would take some time. "Whatever you need, Ilya," Napoleon held his partner's hand up to his lips, "just ask."
The blond man gave a slight smile. "My friend. I missed you," he spoke so softly, "I had no one decent to play chess with."
Solo was still smiling as they parted, with promises of daily visits extracted -- granted eagerly, even -- until Ilya was released for duty.
After making friends with the orderly he had threatened only a week or two before, Solo learned that only during his visits -- or Mr. Waverly's -- was anyone guaranteed to have a real exchange with Ilya Kuryakin. Something about the close ties with his partner and boss kept him alert and focussed. Other times, he was described as unresponsive, or responsive to the wrong name: Vitaly Ivanov. There was a whisper of discussion over trama-induced split personalities, but Medical still seemed inclined to consider it a difficult return to an UNCLE agent's normal life. Such as that may be.
As positive encouragement, Solo was permitted to visit Ilya at almost anytime, day or night, a freedom he took considerable advantage of until the day his partner was released, albeit to 'light duty only'. They would talk, and once or twice drink from a smuggled-in bottle, discussing old cases and reminiscing. Solo knew Dr. Parker was recording and analyzing every word they said, but anything that brought Ilya back to him was a good thing and
worth the effort. This Vitaly Ivanov he had heard so much of was a dark stranger, a man he did not want to meet. An enemy. It was no great sacrifice to curtail his own social activities to win Ilya back. Kuryakin was someone to talk to, and Solo's many women were just that: his many women. It was easy.
A few weeks later, Ilya was released for light duty. The two partners promised to celebrate.
They ate at one of Ilya's favorite Italian restaurants. It was as if Kuryakin had not eaten in months. He savored every mouthful, obviously enjoying the meal as only he could.
Almost replete, they shared a chill plate of tiramisu, Ilya sighing reluctantly over the last bite. "Napoleon, I do believe that was the best suggestion you've made in weeks."
"We should come here tomorrow night, then. We must fatten you up."
Rosalie, owner of the establishment, had commented on both men's gauntness when they arrived. She had upbraided them thoroughly in quick and fluid Italian. First, they did not come visit her for months, then this! They could not even take care of themselves: "eat, eat." she urged. Napoleon had not noticed the impact the past several months had made on himself, but admitted she was right, both men needed a long rest and superlative cuisine. Rosalie's was a start.
"Please!" The blond man gave a light laugh, "That would do quite nicely."
In the cab back to Kuryakin's apartment they were quiet, but companionably so, not the darker silence of complete withdrawal on Ilya's part.
It took only a drink or two of vodka, on top of the wine they'd shared with dinner, to leave them both looser and more relaxed than any other time that year.
It was at that point that Ilya began to speak, Napoleon moving from the sofa to sit on the footrest opposite Kuryakin's chair.
"It was as if I plucked the apple from the tree of knowledge and bit down into it, the sudden realization that my actions were wrong. Everything began to come back, Ilya and Vitaly -- Vitaly is merely myself without a conscience, Napoleon -- and the two...personalities I suppose, 'duked it out' you might say. That's when you found me."
"You weren't drugged. Or shocked."
"No, I was....battling something. Someone." he corrected mildly. "Vitaly Ivanov was a strong man, but not strong enough."
"What happens now?"
"He is still dying. I suppose I'm re-integrating a split personality. I used Vitaly to soak up a lot of punishment, and having to relive some of the things I did for Mother Fear," He looked away from Solo. "Some of the things she did to me. It has not been pleasant."
Solo leaned closer on his stool, studying the tired blond man, dressed in his unchanging black, holding a small glass of vodka. "What can I do?"
Ilya leaned forward and they clasped arms, then he put down the glass and drew closer. Kissed his partner in the Russian style between friends. Whispered in his mother tongue: "I grow tired, my friend, of this fight."
Napoleon answered him in the same idiom: "Rest, and I shall watch for you."
Together, they weaved through Kuryakin's apartment, navigating into the small bedroom. Kuryakin merely protested midly when Napoleon bent to remove his boots, then manevoured them both into the bed.
Ilya was asleep in seconds, and Napoleon cradled him, thinking for a long time, before closing his own eyes.
Napoleon opened an eye and became fully alert.
"Napoleon?"
"I'm here, Ilya." With one hand he stroked the other's hair.
His partner touched Solo's face in the dark, feeling across his features like a blind man reading braille. "You came for me?"
"Of course. You're my partner."
Ilya was touching him more fervently, and his own hands responded, running along his partner's frame. Reassuring him.
"After all my evils, after what I did, what she did..." His voice was a hoarse whisper. "She broke me, Napoleon, I had nothing left to do to escape but become Vitaly. It was that or die. I should have died, I don't know how I buried myself, oh, how she looked right into me when her valet took me, how Vitaly loved her! He --"
"You became him, and she believed she owned you, and you gave us our backdoor to come get you, and you destroyed her." Napoleon clutched Ilya close.
The labored breathing began to slow. Napoleon wished he could turn on a light to study the effects of his words on his partner.
"You are Ilya Kuryakin." Their faces were close enough to feel one another's breath. "My partner," Solo whispered, and their lips met.
It would have been a tossup as to which one grasped the meaning of the contact first, but it didn't matter as they sped across one another's bodies. Tearing off clothing -- both heard Solo's shirt rip, "poor tailoring" was Ilya's response -- and applying lips and hands to bare flesh. Both had lain with other men, within and
apart from their missions for UNCLE, and the partners had slept together in the same bed hundreds of times. This was completely different.
Moving in the dark, knowing and re-affirming each other by scent, touch, and flavor, the two men arrived at an equitable arrangement of bodies. Pressed tight to one another, mouths locked and groins pressed together, they moved gently, then built up indescribable friction. Napoleon's free hand roamed and surveyed the scarring across his partner's back, and he promised himself, smiling, that he'd personally kiss each one and make it better. Who cared if it took the rest of his life?
Ilya was smiling against Solo's mouth, one hand striving to be everywhere at once on his partner's body. It was futile, but highly enjoyable. Finally crying out under Napoleon's touch between their bodies, his orgasm washed away everything else on a sea of fire.
Returning, gradually, he gnawed at Solo's chest, moving and grinding until Napoleon arched and cried out, adding to the slickness coating their joined bodies.
They drowsed awhile, and then, grinning, did it all again, and more.
"Ilya." It was morning, and the little room was dimly golden.
Raised eyebrows turned up to him.
"Are you....back?"
Kuryakin took a moment to peer off into the distance, probing something far away. Then smiled at what he found. "Yes, Napoleon, I am back."
Napoleon grinned and tightened his grasp. "Welcome back, then."
Ilya cracked out another smile. "With welcomes like that, perhaps I should come back more often."
Author : SV. 1999. Reprinted by permission.
Category: standalone
Rating : R
Spoilers: None
keywords: slash, m/m, hurt/comfort, Kuryakin angst, Solo/Kuryakin relationship
disclaim: I do it for love, not money.
Once upon a time -- July 17, 1962 to be precise -- Ilya Kuryakin lay waiting.
The affair had ended badly for him.
Kuryakin's hair was mostly grown out from his disguise of earlier in the year -- a dark, unprepossessing brown, miles from his normal gold. For a long term operation, hair dye had been used instead of the wig a short assignment might have permitted. It had been a significant change, that and the introduction of a lisp to his soft voice made him nearly unrecognizable to even the higher caliber agents of Mother Fear. Unfortunately, painfully, Ilya had gotten quite close to her organization, and in the end, Mother Fear had gotten quite close to him.
UNCLE was making a two-pronged deep reconnaissance, scheduled to last a year or more, to probe the depths of Mother Fear's resources both within and outside her alliance with THRUSH. Napoleon Solo headed the operation on the Paris front, untangling the web of corporations that lead back to one intelligent and treacherous woman. His was the longer, somewhat boring task of getting their investigation of Mother Fear's financial and social ties in Europe off to a comprehensive start. The nature of his side of the operation made it possible for Solo to be pulled back to New York for shorter term assignments, and was considered by many to be preparing the agent for a future branch head position within UNCLE -- a possibility many division leaders in Europe did not find appealing.
Waverly dismissed them all. Solo had the personal charm and social instincts to pull it off, and his staff had stripped New York of some of UNCLE's finest financial inquisitors -- retired US tax investigators.
Ilya, by going deep undercover, was to attempt to insert himself into Mother Fear's organization as a potential supplier of certain services -- explosives, chemical and biological armaments. Posing as the front man of a chemical supply house, he was to negotiate and seal a relationship with agents of Mother Fear, that would put UNCLE in a position to monitor her organization's movements at a discreet distance. After solidifying such a relationship, Ilya would withdraw and be replaced -- but for the subtle aspects of a project to attract an enemy's attention without appearing to try to attract them at all, Kuryakin had the patience and imagination to find the opportunities to make such an attraction happen.
The first two months went like clockwork. Napoleon insinuated himself into the Paris social scene as a financier and womanizer -- a near-perfect cover for him to reel in tasty tidbits on current corporate failings, families, and backdoor dealings.
Ilya disappeared in Africa and resurfaced as Vitaly Ivanov, ex-Soviet Navy with experience in 'exotic' weapons details. He began worming his way north, casting about for opportunities to call himself to the attention of Mother Fear's minions.
And disappeared again.
It wasn't until Kuryakin had missed 5 or 6 chances to contact his home base that UNCLE, that is, Waverly, became worried. The best agents didn't necessarily stay to a timetable -- Ilya may simply have gone under because 'Ivanov' required it. He might even have taken up a job offer -- one of many possibilities discussed but ultimately discarded by UNCLE's brain-trust planning teams. The goal was to build an information conduit, not to place a specific mole into Mother Fear's organization. But it wasn't out of the question, and variables such as these were why such a highly capable agent had been placed in the field to begin with.
He had seen sunlight once. Known from the quality of it that it must have been midday, and that therefore his earlier meal had been breakfast. Assuming that meal had in fact been only a few hours ago -- his sense of time had become unreliable.
It was Napoleon's team who picked up Ilya's scent, confirming that something had gone wrong. An embassy 'cocktail party chum' had let a detail slip, that led to a small holding company, whose board of directors led to a multitude of dead ends and one live one. That live one was seduced before she even knew it.
Her bedtime whisperings led them a further chase and dropped the devastating hint that one of their own had been taken. Whether he had been turned or captured, or both, remained to be seen.
"Drop the charade," she spoke to him in French, although when they met their business had been conducted in German. "I know who you are. I could never forget you, Mr. Kuryakin, in all the sweet ways I've known you how could I possibly forget?" Her choice of phrasing was explicitly sexual. She had thinned somewhat from the last time they met, and Ilya filed away the possiblity of a recent illness for future reference.
He hung, mute.
"You cannot change your body, Mr. Kuryakin, and you could not hide its recognition of me. It is as simple as that. Primal reactions. Primal...responses. Primal fear is my calling card."
He remained mute, feeling his naked abdomen push against the stone of his cell as he breathed in and out, focussing on his body. The hairs standing up on the back of his neck and arms in the chill dungeon. The wetness of his trousers from being splashed with cold water. The bruising and chafing on his wrists, the common complaint of an UNCLE field agent. These manacles didn't help.
Ilya had survived her once, he could do the trick again.
Oriole, for that was the name of Napoleon's current informant, and a fitting one for an unwitting THRUSH pawn, had fallen head over heels in love. She didn't question her new beau's interest in her business affairs, didn't even realize that her pillow games made her the latest in a long string of spies along the outer fringes of THRUSH.
Napoleon didn't like what he was hearing, and he disliked even less reporting it to Waverly. Ilya had been gone for at least a month, possibly as many as two -- there was no pinpointing the exact date of his disappearance. There had been a few subtle hints of an unexpected guest, as Oriole had described it, at the "Belgian office", which they were sure meant one of Mother Fear's facilities. Oriole had actually met Mother Fear, although not under that name, instead describing her as the widow of a German count.
So UNCLE's mission changed from infiltration to penetration and retrieval, but Napoleon's actions remained about the same: seduce, charm, and wrest any information possible, from anyone, anywhere, anytime. He flitted about Europe, vacationing along the Rhine with Oriole, every inch the laughing playboy, and every minute the worried UNCLE agent.
The breakthrough came after one of the longer sessions. Ilya awoke lying on his side, chained only at one leg, on the straw in his cell. He had cried aloud during this last beating, knowing yet hating to admit that he had finally crumpled and pleaded for her to stop. Kuryakin recognized what it meant when Mother Fear merely laid her cool hand on his naked shoulder and murmured soothingly, then instructed her valet to continue.
She had held his face in her hands, their eyes locked as he struggled against the vile attentions of her manservant. Trying not to get lost in her depths, trying to hold onto the pain and remain himself and knowing that he would fail, that he must fail, that he could not fail.
That session had terminated -- as did many -- when Ilya lost consciousness, bound on all fours in Mother Fear's shackles, in what was an otherwise tastefully decorated drawing room, and could not be revived.
He awakened, has he had many times before, back in his cell, somewhat cleaned -- death by infection would not be permitted -- and stiff, cold, and sore beyond belief. Kuryakin had not been able to sleep on his back for quite a long time. Normally he huddled on his side in a small mound of straw, but his neck hurt so greatly that he struggled up to his knees and resolved to stay there, regardless of the pain in his joints the movement caused.
It was at this point that Mother Fear entered his cell and Ilya Kuryakin fled his body. From a distance, he watched more then felt Mother's latest acquisition cringe before her, assuming the position normally forced into by shackles, and trembling, waiting for her touch.
When it came, her hand stroking his hair, he didn't know whether to shriek, orgasm, or cry, and his body opted for all three at once.
Mother Fear made little cooing noises, soothing the shuddering body crouched before her. "It was for your own good, my dear boy."
"Yes, Mother Fear." came the croaked whisper in reply.
From this vantage point, high above his body, Ilya could see her smile. "You know you needed firm discipline before forgiveness."
"Yes, Mother Fear."
"Mother loves you, and you love mother, don't you?"
"Yes, Mother."
"Let's go upstairs to bed, then. Mother forgives you."
The walls of stone around Ilya were tight and small, darkly enclosing him as they had enclosed his body. He struggled now against the manacles of his own flesh, as that flesh rose up and followed Mother Fear calmly and obediently out of the dungeon cell.
Number Two of Section II was either dead, turned, or playing the most dangerous game ever devised. Alexander Waverly hated all three of those possibilities, but that didn't stop him from planning for each one. Napoleon Solo spent a great deal of time jetting back across the Atlantic to 'visit his New York assets', while also searching for 'business opportunities' throughout Europe. 5 months and counting. He spent more time in the air than anywhere else, and, to the dismay of his 'cocktail party chums', the financier playboy Napoleon Statford threw only a few parties a month.
'Vitaly' was a model agent. Bright and showing intiative, he made no attempts to escape. He was obedient to a fault, eager to satisfy Mother Fear's every whim, but suffered from tics, stuttering and once a petite mal seizure when questioned too directly about his UNCLE past. He could not, or would not, speak above a whisper.
And, Mother Fear's newest prodigy was utterly adept at pinpointing and rectifying the security issues that plague any major criminal organization. Mother put him to good use, upgrading systems and even stocking a lab at her residence for his experiments.
As Ilya, he had been an unobtrusive man. As Vitaly, he was nearly invisible. The only noticeable characteristic was his two-toned hair as his blond grew in. He would not bleach it as Mother had suggested. It was the only thing he refused her. In every other way he was her dedicated bodyguard and manservant.
It was the opportunity that UNCLE had been waiting for. After determining the general area of Mother Fear's main base, it was just a matter of pinning down shipments of supplies. Oriole had inadvertantly let slip mention of some equipment upgrades -- all the UNCLE agents had to do was watch the movement of electronic supplies into and out of the region.
Whoever was handling security was the very best, but it was playing against a stacked deck to make large-scale movement of modern equipment into German wine country appear innocuous.
The raid was at dawn.
Napoleon Solo started to pull rank, but Waverly beat him to the punch: "If Ilya lives, find him."
Solo's team held as their first imperative the obliteration of Mother Fear, it was Napoleon only who held the deeper objective, no one else was to search for their lost agent, nor assume his friendliness. Tranquilize On Sight was the order of the day.
They breached security with moderate ease, as the upgrade process had permitted Solo to map much of the systems of Mother Fear's main facility. It was that slim fact that left Napoleon clinging to the hope of Ilya running the deepest cover possible.
The attack went by the numbers, 5 teams converging on the main house with minimal injuries. Napoleon's strike force was a search and destroy targeting Mother Fear's personal staff. They swept through the mansion from east wing to west with D team cleaning up behind them -- A, B, C, and D had arrived from each of the 4 compass points -- only Eagle Team, headed by Solo, roamed the facility at his whim.
'Vitaly' had been on his way to the lab, in the lift, when the lights dimmed. They were under attack.
He popped the hatch in the ceiling and climbed back up the elevator cable, making his way back to Mother Fear's rooms.
A short time later, the quiet man slipped down a deserted hallway and resumed heading for the lower levels of the building. He walked softly, but gave a brief twitch every few steps, as if poked with a pin. His grey uniform was somewhat mussed.
He was standing near the doorway to the cell that had been his when everything went white.
Eagle team had found a laboratory on the premises, and Napoleon recognized several pieces of equipment: a graduated titration tube held a familiar purple liquid, and the labels on glass bottles were in an even more familiar hand. Ilya Kuryakin was alive.
Once upon a time -- July 17, 1962, to be precise -- Ilya Kuryakin lay waiting to die.
Eagle team had split up to search the dungeon levels, freeing prisoners and wreaking as much chaos as humanly possible. Napoleon Solo rounded a corner and shot twice, catching two men, one of them stunningly blond, before they could respond. Both were dressed in the grey uniform of Mother Fear's personal staff.
Solo cursed softly as he turned the blond over and saw it was not Ilya. He had to be there somewhere. Would Mother Fear have imprisoned him for over half a year? What about that laboratory? He hurried deeper into the dungeons.
Ilya saw black-haired death round a corner and almost fire at him. He was prone on the stone floor, gasping and struggling as his body and mind finally gave into a grand mal seizure.
He recognized that face, it was one he had never thought to see again: Napoleon Solo.
"Ilya!" Their lost agent must have been slipped some kind of convulsant, or given an electric shock. He was wearing the grey uniform of Mother Fear.
It was a long time before Napoleon was able to restrain Kuryakin, only then noticing the weight loss, the brown-and-blond hair, the glassy eyes. So many months undercover was too long for even the vaunted Russian.
"She's dead, Ilya. She's dead." He murmured over and over, holding Ilya as close as possible, breathing in the scent of the other man. "I'm here."
Section II was jubilant. A major blow had been struck against THRUSH and its allies. Kuryakin had wormed his way into the middle of Mother Fear's organization and destroyed it completely, at great danger and cost to himself. His electronic 'upgrades' had lead UNCLE to the hidden base, and it was Kuryakin's own hands that had snapped Mother Fear's neck.
Number Two of Section II had been packed off to New York almost immediately after retrieval, firmly esconced in the hands of Medical before Napoleon could even begin closing down the Paris operation. After a week he couldn't stand it anymore, handing over the remainder of the task to his second-in-command, and hopping on a plane. Enough was enough.
He touched down in New York, depositing his suitcases in the office he and Ilya had shared for so long, and made his way down to the ward.
"Mr. Solo! Mr. Solo!" The young orderly did his best to block Napoleon's path. "Please!" Hands up in the air, "Please, sir, Dr. Parker left specific instructions --"
"For what?! I'm here to see Ilya, so get out of the way."
A third voice cut into the fray. "Mr Solo." Napoleon turned and locked eyes with a woman taller then himself. "I left specific instructions for you to speak to me before being permitted," she chose to stress the word lightly, staring Solo down with her dark brown eyes, "permitted, to see your partner." She gestured down the hall, "this will only take a moment."
They took a few steps down the hall and Parker turned to address him. "Mr. Solo."
"He's all right, isn't he?"
She was blunt. Ilya had been in and out of a fugue-like state after several days of catatonia. As anxious, admittedly, as Mr. Waverly and Section II were for a full debriefing, Mr. Kuryakin currently was not often clear on his surroundings and identity. Minor identity crises and bouts of confusion were not uncommon for agents emerging from deep, long-term cover, so something along these lines was not entirely unexpected. Napoleon had suffered from it himself, a perception of disjointedness upon his return to the 'real' world. It simply took time to adjust.
At the moment, he needed to approach his partner as a friend, not a colleague.
With that agreement made, Napoleon opened the indicated door and stepped in. The pale form in the room's lone bed didn't move a muscle. Someone had cut away the last of the brown hair, leaving Ilya his normal blond self. It was about the only thing that looked normal, the rest of the agent was older, gaunt, and far too still.
"Hello."
Ilya's eyes tracked the dark-haired man as he arrived within Kuryakin's field of view.. He was lying on his right side, curled slightly, facing away from the door. Napoleon sat down in the nearby chair, conscious of the silent scrutiny.
As if from a great distance, a slow spark lit behind Ilya's eyes, and after a few tries, he mouthed Napoleon's first name. Solo nodded and leaned very close so that each could drink in the sight of the other.
Kuryakin kept mouthing Solo's name, gradually attaching sound to the event. "Napoleon."
"Yes, Ilya."
"I'm...." Blue eyes broke contact to wander about the room, as if seeing the sterile white walls for the first time. "I'm in Medical." At Napoleon's nod, he ventured to his next conclusion: "I'm alive."
"Yes, Ilya. You're in New York, and you're very much alive." They clasped hands and Solo witnessed the shadow of his partner's smile.
"Mother Fear?"
"Dead. By your hand."
Kuryakin appeared to ponder the information, then nodded as if seeing the memory of her death for the first time. "Ah, yes. So it was."
Solo didn't often exhibit tenderness, but his hand was gentle as he brushed at his partner's hair. There was so much to ask, but he settled for the innocuous. "How do you feel?"
The man seemed to retreat to a distant place before finding the answer, "Vitaly is....dying." The admission seemed to cause great pain, "When he is gone, things will be...easier." Kuryakin squeezed Solo's hand companionably and closed his eyes.
Obviously, re-integrating his role as Vitaly, associate of Mother Fear, into his normal behaviour would take some time. "Whatever you need, Ilya," Napoleon held his partner's hand up to his lips, "just ask."
The blond man gave a slight smile. "My friend. I missed you," he spoke so softly, "I had no one decent to play chess with."
Solo was still smiling as they parted, with promises of daily visits extracted -- granted eagerly, even -- until Ilya was released for duty.
After making friends with the orderly he had threatened only a week or two before, Solo learned that only during his visits -- or Mr. Waverly's -- was anyone guaranteed to have a real exchange with Ilya Kuryakin. Something about the close ties with his partner and boss kept him alert and focussed. Other times, he was described as unresponsive, or responsive to the wrong name: Vitaly Ivanov. There was a whisper of discussion over trama-induced split personalities, but Medical still seemed inclined to consider it a difficult return to an UNCLE agent's normal life. Such as that may be.
As positive encouragement, Solo was permitted to visit Ilya at almost anytime, day or night, a freedom he took considerable advantage of until the day his partner was released, albeit to 'light duty only'. They would talk, and once or twice drink from a smuggled-in bottle, discussing old cases and reminiscing. Solo knew Dr. Parker was recording and analyzing every word they said, but anything that brought Ilya back to him was a good thing and
worth the effort. This Vitaly Ivanov he had heard so much of was a dark stranger, a man he did not want to meet. An enemy. It was no great sacrifice to curtail his own social activities to win Ilya back. Kuryakin was someone to talk to, and Solo's many women were just that: his many women. It was easy.
A few weeks later, Ilya was released for light duty. The two partners promised to celebrate.
They ate at one of Ilya's favorite Italian restaurants. It was as if Kuryakin had not eaten in months. He savored every mouthful, obviously enjoying the meal as only he could.
Almost replete, they shared a chill plate of tiramisu, Ilya sighing reluctantly over the last bite. "Napoleon, I do believe that was the best suggestion you've made in weeks."
"We should come here tomorrow night, then. We must fatten you up."
Rosalie, owner of the establishment, had commented on both men's gauntness when they arrived. She had upbraided them thoroughly in quick and fluid Italian. First, they did not come visit her for months, then this! They could not even take care of themselves: "eat, eat." she urged. Napoleon had not noticed the impact the past several months had made on himself, but admitted she was right, both men needed a long rest and superlative cuisine. Rosalie's was a start.
"Please!" The blond man gave a light laugh, "That would do quite nicely."
In the cab back to Kuryakin's apartment they were quiet, but companionably so, not the darker silence of complete withdrawal on Ilya's part.
It took only a drink or two of vodka, on top of the wine they'd shared with dinner, to leave them both looser and more relaxed than any other time that year.
It was at that point that Ilya began to speak, Napoleon moving from the sofa to sit on the footrest opposite Kuryakin's chair.
"It was as if I plucked the apple from the tree of knowledge and bit down into it, the sudden realization that my actions were wrong. Everything began to come back, Ilya and Vitaly -- Vitaly is merely myself without a conscience, Napoleon -- and the two...personalities I suppose, 'duked it out' you might say. That's when you found me."
"You weren't drugged. Or shocked."
"No, I was....battling something. Someone." he corrected mildly. "Vitaly Ivanov was a strong man, but not strong enough."
"What happens now?"
"He is still dying. I suppose I'm re-integrating a split personality. I used Vitaly to soak up a lot of punishment, and having to relive some of the things I did for Mother Fear," He looked away from Solo. "Some of the things she did to me. It has not been pleasant."
Solo leaned closer on his stool, studying the tired blond man, dressed in his unchanging black, holding a small glass of vodka. "What can I do?"
Ilya leaned forward and they clasped arms, then he put down the glass and drew closer. Kissed his partner in the Russian style between friends. Whispered in his mother tongue: "I grow tired, my friend, of this fight."
Napoleon answered him in the same idiom: "Rest, and I shall watch for you."
Together, they weaved through Kuryakin's apartment, navigating into the small bedroom. Kuryakin merely protested midly when Napoleon bent to remove his boots, then manevoured them both into the bed.
Ilya was asleep in seconds, and Napoleon cradled him, thinking for a long time, before closing his own eyes.
Napoleon opened an eye and became fully alert.
"Napoleon?"
"I'm here, Ilya." With one hand he stroked the other's hair.
His partner touched Solo's face in the dark, feeling across his features like a blind man reading braille. "You came for me?"
"Of course. You're my partner."
Ilya was touching him more fervently, and his own hands responded, running along his partner's frame. Reassuring him.
"After all my evils, after what I did, what she did..." His voice was a hoarse whisper. "She broke me, Napoleon, I had nothing left to do to escape but become Vitaly. It was that or die. I should have died, I don't know how I buried myself, oh, how she looked right into me when her valet took me, how Vitaly loved her! He --"
"You became him, and she believed she owned you, and you gave us our backdoor to come get you, and you destroyed her." Napoleon clutched Ilya close.
The labored breathing began to slow. Napoleon wished he could turn on a light to study the effects of his words on his partner.
"You are Ilya Kuryakin." Their faces were close enough to feel one another's breath. "My partner," Solo whispered, and their lips met.
It would have been a tossup as to which one grasped the meaning of the contact first, but it didn't matter as they sped across one another's bodies. Tearing off clothing -- both heard Solo's shirt rip, "poor tailoring" was Ilya's response -- and applying lips and hands to bare flesh. Both had lain with other men, within and
apart from their missions for UNCLE, and the partners had slept together in the same bed hundreds of times. This was completely different.
Moving in the dark, knowing and re-affirming each other by scent, touch, and flavor, the two men arrived at an equitable arrangement of bodies. Pressed tight to one another, mouths locked and groins pressed together, they moved gently, then built up indescribable friction. Napoleon's free hand roamed and surveyed the scarring across his partner's back, and he promised himself, smiling, that he'd personally kiss each one and make it better. Who cared if it took the rest of his life?
Ilya was smiling against Solo's mouth, one hand striving to be everywhere at once on his partner's body. It was futile, but highly enjoyable. Finally crying out under Napoleon's touch between their bodies, his orgasm washed away everything else on a sea of fire.
Returning, gradually, he gnawed at Solo's chest, moving and grinding until Napoleon arched and cried out, adding to the slickness coating their joined bodies.
They drowsed awhile, and then, grinning, did it all again, and more.
"Ilya." It was morning, and the little room was dimly golden.
Raised eyebrows turned up to him.
"Are you....back?"
Kuryakin took a moment to peer off into the distance, probing something far away. Then smiled at what he found. "Yes, Napoleon, I am back."
Napoleon grinned and tightened his grasp. "Welcome back, then."
Ilya cracked out another smile. "With welcomes like that, perhaps I should come back more often."