I'm having a lot of fun writing these impulsive littles stories that force themselves out of my brain while I'm writing my other fics.
Obsession can be such an interesting thing, no?
Climate of Negatives: Instinct
a Man From UNCLE interlude
“It’s been a long day… Illya, would you care to join me at the Club for a drink?”
Napoleon Solo regretted the suggestion as soon as he had uttered it. The look Illya Kuryakin shot him was a breath’s short of scathing.
“Um, if you’re not, ah, otherwise engaged,” Solo added, after several awkward seconds of staring.
Kuryakin’s voice was as dry and cold as the Siberian tundra. “I am waiting for the punch line. You are joking, Napoleon—aren’t you?”
“Apparently.” Solo said mildly. Kuryakin held him for a few moments more before releasing him from his glare.
They were leaving UNCLE headquarters by the agent’s entrance. It had been a long day, but one of routine, with lots of tension—and paperwork—but no real excitement. There was a breathless quality of the evening, as if it had been too long before something when awry, and something could happen at any time. Both Solo and Kuryakin could feel it. It may have been time to go home—but not to abandon vigilance.
Solo leaned forward to allow the pretty young female agent to remove his badge, taking the opportunity to inhale the lovely fragrance of perfume daubed behind her delicate ear. Kuryakin plucked the badge off of his coat and dropped it carelessly on the desk, slipping out of the thick door as soon as it opened.
By the time Solo pushed aside the curtain to Del Flora’s changing room, the customer bell was shivering a last dying tone, the door already closed. Mr. Del Flora had retired for the day, but Napoleon knew the shop was always under surveillance. He saluted the two-way mirror, a motion that to a casual observer would appear to be nothing more than a vain man checking his reflection before stepping out on the town.
Solo had a rare uncommitted evening before him. Usually he would have an encounter planned with one or another lovely lady. Lacking his usual motivation, Solo found himself wondering idly where it was that Kuryakin went when he left the office for the day. Why had he been in such a hurry tonight, disdainful of Napoleon’s invitation?
As senior agent, Solo was familiar with the his fellow agent’s file, and so he knew everything there was to know about the young Russian—except what he did in his personal time, and where he did it.
Solo assumed the Gypsy blood in his friend’s veins coupled with his Soviet heritage was what made the man so impenetrably secretive. It was impossible to guess what motivated him. Possession and material objects hold little value over him, though Solo could see that Kuryakin respected and obviously enjoyed American life and its amenities. But other than the compact blue Jaguar that Illya drove with passion, and the neat black suits and crisp white shirts he wore, he seemed to move through his world touching and affecting as little as possible. He didn’t even have a permanent address listed on his file.
Curiosity piqued, Solo felt an overwhelming desire to follow Kuryakin, to learn something of the mystery. But even if he had wanted to act on such an impulse, it seemed to be too late. The night street had swallowed up all traces of his blond counterpart. Napoleon was alone in a street empty except for the ubiquitous detritus of paper and smoke that were mandatory in a New York street.
Lifting his face to the sullen sky, he smiled suddenly. He felt himself observed, and knew instantly—in that way that he knew but couldn’t explain—that Kuryakin was somewhere nearby.
No matter which way Solo walked, idly down one street and turning at random, he felt the presence move with him, giving to his approach like shadows retreating from the glow of a candle. How he knew it was his friend and not some threatening lurker, he couldn’t have put into words. He just knew.
Napoleon whistled a tune and made his way briskly through the pools of light splashed along the streets, heading for Cappio’s Club. He knew when he got there that he’d find a martini—very cold and very, very dry with a twist of lemon—already ordered and waiting for him, sitting next to a cup of black coffee in the most remote corner of the bar.
He hurried so that Illya’s coffee wouldn’t get cold.
~~~fin?
And you write it well, Loth.
