Distant Voices 3/6
Title: Distant Voices 3/6
Author: Shelly - cosmosmariner
Pairing: Illya/Napoleon
Rating: mostly R, some NC-17 in places.
Summary: Internal wounds are the hardest to see, because everyone thinks you're okay.
Distribution: Please ask me first, otherwise go for it!
Disclaimer: I totally do not own The Man From U.N.C.L.E. - if I did, I wouldn't leave my house.
Act III
It‘s Alright, Ma (I‘m Only Bleeding)
September, 1972
The knock on the door was soft but insistent. Kulik grumbled and complained loudly until he opened the door and saw his pupil and friend Jacob slumped over the stoop.
“Jacob! What the hell happened to you?”
The pale young man hobbled into the living room, Kulik’s arm guiding him toward his own favorite chair. Jacob’s lip was split open. His right eye was swollen, puffy and purple. He had slight abrasions on his cheeks and chin, as if his attacker had been wearing a ring. By the looks of it, a class ring bearing the insignia of Smithton Memorial High School, for the intertwined SM was pressed into Jacob's flesh.
“Doc…”
Kulik flew into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of 7Up for the boy and ran back to his young friend’s side. “Jacob, you have to tell me what happened. Who did this to you?”
Jacob’s shaking hands cradled the soft drink bottle. He took a small sip, cursing when the fizz touched his lip. “I was…attacked…Old Red…Barn…”
“Why?”
Kulik’s eyes were narrowed and turning a slate blue. Jacob had never seen the professor so angry in the years he had known him. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “They think I’m queer.”
“Who does?”
He shook his head. “No, Doc. I’m not going to tell you. Just patch me up so I can go home without Mom having a heart attack.”
The professor rose to his feet, paced across the floor like a leopard on the prowl. “You must tell me, so I can have a talk with them.”
“Doc… is talk a euphemism for an ass kicking?”
“Language, young man.”
Jacob laughed, then groaned as his sore muscles cramped. “Just some of the guys from school, sir. They jumped me outside the Old Red Barn. Said I was some sort of limp wristed queer boy.”
“And where did they get this idea? Aren’t you dating a girl?”
“Yes. But I guess you can date girls and still be…well, you know, sir.”
Kulik nodded. He knew too well the secrets that people like him used to hide the truth, and remembered Napoleon’s overactive dating life, although he himself had long ago gave up living the lie. “That’s true. But why do they think you’re a homosexual?”
Jacob took another drink of the 7Up and winced when he swallowed. He put the bottle up to his now burning eye. “Because of you, Doc.”
“Me?”
“Yes, sir. Dicky said that only a queer would hang out with another one, especially a Commie Red bastard.”
Kulik frowned, flexed his fist in an anxious gesture. “And you said?“
“I told him that it takes one to know one, sir.“
The professor smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “I suppose you didn’t tell this Dicky that plenty of people pass by my threshold and none of them, to my knowledge, are homosexual? Or, for that matter, Communist? And that it‘s not contagious?”
“Didn’t get the chance. He wailed on me.”
“Jacob, do you think he has a point?” Kulik asked.
“Jesus Christ, Doc! You’re like a father to me, who cares if you’re purple or Red or gay or Japanese or whatever. Besides, you‘re in America now, so you‘re one of us.”
The professor smiled slightly. It was a Napoleon-like answer. His partner never seemed to accept the obvious answer - he always went for the least logical way. His gut, he called it. Nine times out of ten, his gut was right.
Kulik had to listen to his gut now.
“Jacob, I know that I told you that violence isn’t always the best way to solve things, that you should try diplomacy first. But sometimes you need to not listen to me. Or, rather, I should listen to myself and not to ghosts from my past. Tomorrow, we are not going to practice guitar.”
“We’re not?”
“No, boy. I’m going to teach you the proper way to fight off your attackers. You may not believe this, but I used to be able to fend off trained assassins in my youth.”
“You’re right. I don’t believe it. Is this one of your Mob tricks?”
Kulik yelped. “For the last time, Jacob, I was not in the Mob. Now, do you want to learn how or not?”
The boy looked at his reflection in the polished lamp on the table next to him. He looked even worse than he felt. He swallowed hard and nodded his head.
“Good,” Kulik said briskly. “Now. Drink up. I’ll accompany you home.”
Kulik and Jacob walked back to the Liebhaber home. Jacob ran upstairs to avoid seeing his mother. “Doc!” he called down the stairs. “Don’t say a word.”
Kulik shook his head, but agreed. When he went back home, he put a record on his set and laid down on his couch, propping his legs up with a fluffy pillow. He started to drowse, memories coming to the surface and taking root.
“I’ve heard rumours that you’re a little light in the loafers there, Kuryakin,” said Belk, a Section Three. “I heard rumours that you’ve got the hots for your partner.”
“Well, Belk, I heard a rumour that you were fighting for your life in Medical,” said a soft, dangerously low voice behind him.
Belk turned around and was face to face with Napoleon Solo. The CEA’s eyes were narrowed, shooting daggers at him. “I would recommend that you leave Mr. Kuryakin alone and forget these ridiculous rumours. Obviously, it doesn’t matter a whit what he does or doesn’t do on his personal time. He’s an agent of UNCLE and, as such, he is worthy of the respect that you would give to any of us. Me, for instance. Mr. Waverly. Got it?”
Belk nodded and scurried down the hallway. Illya sagged against the wall. “Napoleon, I don’t need you to fight my battles for me. You do realize that it makes me look weak.”
“I don’t care. When they insult you, they also insult me, tovarisch.”
“It doesn’t mean anything, Napoleon. I’ve dealt with it all my life, a lowly Section Three with a big mouth isn’t going to change anything.”
Napoleon clasped his hand on Illya’s shoulder. “Tell you what. Why not come over to my place for the evening? We can have dinner. I’ve got leftover pot roast and a German Chocolate cake?”
“Sounds great.’
The two agents ate and talked through the evening. When Napoleon took the bottle of vodka out of the freezer and handed it to Illya, he smiled. “Want some?”
“Of course,” Illya said.
They both drank together, then Napoleon poured another shot and raised it for a toast. “To Illya Kuryakin. A man above all other men, first in the mind and heart of his partner.”
Illya paused in the middle of hoisting his own glass. “First in the mind and heart…”
Napoleon smiled. “First. Only. Always.”
Illya set his glass down. “First. Only. Always,” he repeated.
Napoleon reached across the table and grabbed Illya’s hand. “Tell me that what Belk said is only a rumour.”
Illya shook his head. “I can’t.”
“So…you have the hots for your partner, then?” His mouth curled a little, his eyes twinkling with delight.
“Napoleon, I…”
“Because, partner mine, I must tell you that the feeling is mutual. More than mutual.” Napoleon drew Illya’s hand closer to him, and stuck Illya’s finger in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the digit.
Illya gasped like he had been bitten by a snake. “Napoleon,” he whispered shakily. “What are you doing?”
“Something I’ve thought about for a long time,” Napoleon replied, “Years, really.”
Illya stood up hastily, jerking his hand out of Napoleon’s grasp. The dark haired man also leapt to his feet and in a few large steps was in front of the Russian. “Tell me that you don’t feel it, Illya. Tell me and I’ll leave you alone.”
Illya opened his mouth to tell the lie, but found that he couldn’t speak. Napoleon smiled. “You feel it. I know you do. You want it as much as I do.”
Illya could only nod his acceptance.
“So you see why I had to do what I did to Belk. I only have my reputation protecting me. But when I stop flirting with every skirt that walks into UNCLE headquarters, they’ll start about me, too.”
“Why would you stop flirting with girls? You’re so good at it.”
Napoleon laughed. “Oh, Illya. For being an intelligent man, sometimes you ask the most stupid questions.” He grabbed him by the shoulders, pulled him close and kissed him.
November, 1972
It would have been Illya’s 41st birthday. Napoleon would have taken him out to dinner at some fancy steak house, took him back to their apartment, stripped him down and made love to him relentlessly. It was their usual way to celebrating, and to Napoleon it felt like the best way.
The New York city skyline blurred against the unceasing rain. He stood near the window of his apartment, Scotch in hand, his robe wrapped tightly around him. Napoleon drank and looked out the window, Roberta Flack’s voice drifting out of the record player around him, like the memories that swirled within him.
The first time ever I kissed your mouth
I felt the earth turn in my hand
Like the trembling heart of a captive bird…
He had felt that way about Illya. He still felt that way about him. The loneliness was crushing, debilitating, and it seemed that every day became more and more difficult to bear.
The rain continued to beat down, matching Napoleon’s dark mood.
The first time ever I lay with you
And felt your heart beat close to mine
I thought our joy would fill the earth…
He wondered if Illya was out there looking at the sky wherever he was. Napoleon wondered if he was as alone and lonely as he was. He hoped that Illya was happy. His partner had such a remarkable smile that he rarely showed the world, and it was Napoleon’s greatest pleasure to see that smile focused in his direction. Illya’s eyes were beautiful and his body delightful, but his smile was the thing that sent warmth throughout his body and chills up his spine. The smile that was so rare, so valued, and so desired.
He remembered the first time Illya smiled at him. They had only been working partners for three weeks, and it had been a particularly trying affair. The innocent, a woman named Patsy, apparently had eyes only for the Russian. Napoleon’s charms did not work in the slightest.
“Hey, Illya,” Napoleon said. “I wonder if you can get her to follow that THRUSH dame into the ladies’ room?”
“Why do you think I’m the one to do such a thing?”
“Are you blind? She’s goo-goo for you.”
Illya’s ears turned a light pink color. He looked a little…bashful? “Napoleon, surely you don’t think…”
“Yes, I think, and I know, too. Just do something, Illya. That little chickie is getting away and we need to learn her bird song.”
Illya frowned, but walked over to Patsy and whispered in her ear. She nodded furiously and all but ran to the ladies’ room. He walked back to Napoleon and shot him a slight grin. The power of that small gesture made the hair on Napoleon’s neck stand up. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling.
The song ended on the record, and Napoleon reached over, picked up the needle and put it on the well worn groove again. Roberta started her lover’s lullaby again as Napoleon’s forehead pressed against the cool glass of the window.
He missed his partner so much.
August, 1973
In a few short years, Napoleon Solo had become a world renown expert in Imperial Russian artifacts. Solo and Associates had become a leader in the field. He had studied all over the world, given lectures at Ivy League campuses and art museums across Europe. The colleagues that he worked with at various universities throughout America all said the same thing: that Mr. Solo was driven toward his work, that he lived and breathed the nuances of the items he worked with, and that he was almost obsessed with a miniature that he carried with him everywhere he went.
There were a few colleges that he had not spoken at, mostly in the Midwest and Deep South, where their Slavic studies departments were either small or non-existent. He found himself retreating more and more into the discovery of new items and less on the actual academic study. The few people he worked closely with found that he was a difficult man to know, and that he seemed to have a different reason to search out these rare and previous relics than they had.
It was almost as if he was trying to bring someone back from the dead.
He had started to become reclusive; and yet he was still charming. The women in the various offices he would visit would in turns sigh and swoon at the well turned man with perfect suits and distinguished graying at his temples. His eyes were dark and stormy, and his walk? Confident, cool, authoritative. Here was a man who understood the concept of power. However, from all apparent evidence, Mr. Solo was not prepared to take advantage of any situation. He was more likely to walk into a room quietly, take a quick assessment of the items and note them, then go back to his Fifth Avenue apartment in New York and do his research there.
It wasn’t that he was difficult to work with, it was that he was impossible to work with. Solo and Associates was a misnomer - the company was Mr. Solo alone. He never made himself available to his colleagues and other researchers, and when he began a job in earnest, he worked around the clock. He usually only took small breaks, eating Italian food at a small café in Greenwich Village of all places, or spending an inordinate amount of time looking at the miniature that never left his side.
He was driven, haunted by ghosts of an unknown nature. The demons that followed him were many, and they shadowed everything he did. The people he worked with knew better than to ask, but they whispered among themselves. There were rumors, of course; the miniature belonged to a late wife, or a former girlfriend, or the one that got away. They knew Mr. Solo would never admit or substantiate, so that’s all they were - rumors.
To a person, they always thought the same thing: Whoever she was…I hope she was worth it.
Author: Shelly - cosmosmariner
Pairing: Illya/Napoleon
Rating: mostly R, some NC-17 in places.
Summary: Internal wounds are the hardest to see, because everyone thinks you're okay.
Distribution: Please ask me first, otherwise go for it!
Disclaimer: I totally do not own The Man From U.N.C.L.E. - if I did, I wouldn't leave my house.
Act III
It‘s Alright, Ma (I‘m Only Bleeding)
September, 1972
The knock on the door was soft but insistent. Kulik grumbled and complained loudly until he opened the door and saw his pupil and friend Jacob slumped over the stoop.
“Jacob! What the hell happened to you?”
The pale young man hobbled into the living room, Kulik’s arm guiding him toward his own favorite chair. Jacob’s lip was split open. His right eye was swollen, puffy and purple. He had slight abrasions on his cheeks and chin, as if his attacker had been wearing a ring. By the looks of it, a class ring bearing the insignia of Smithton Memorial High School, for the intertwined SM was pressed into Jacob's flesh.
“Doc…”
Kulik flew into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of 7Up for the boy and ran back to his young friend’s side. “Jacob, you have to tell me what happened. Who did this to you?”
Jacob’s shaking hands cradled the soft drink bottle. He took a small sip, cursing when the fizz touched his lip. “I was…attacked…Old Red…Barn…”
“Why?”
Kulik’s eyes were narrowed and turning a slate blue. Jacob had never seen the professor so angry in the years he had known him. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “They think I’m queer.”
“Who does?”
He shook his head. “No, Doc. I’m not going to tell you. Just patch me up so I can go home without Mom having a heart attack.”
The professor rose to his feet, paced across the floor like a leopard on the prowl. “You must tell me, so I can have a talk with them.”
“Doc… is talk a euphemism for an ass kicking?”
“Language, young man.”
Jacob laughed, then groaned as his sore muscles cramped. “Just some of the guys from school, sir. They jumped me outside the Old Red Barn. Said I was some sort of limp wristed queer boy.”
“And where did they get this idea? Aren’t you dating a girl?”
“Yes. But I guess you can date girls and still be…well, you know, sir.”
Kulik nodded. He knew too well the secrets that people like him used to hide the truth, and remembered Napoleon’s overactive dating life, although he himself had long ago gave up living the lie. “That’s true. But why do they think you’re a homosexual?”
Jacob took another drink of the 7Up and winced when he swallowed. He put the bottle up to his now burning eye. “Because of you, Doc.”
“Me?”
“Yes, sir. Dicky said that only a queer would hang out with another one, especially a Commie Red bastard.”
Kulik frowned, flexed his fist in an anxious gesture. “And you said?“
“I told him that it takes one to know one, sir.“
The professor smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “I suppose you didn’t tell this Dicky that plenty of people pass by my threshold and none of them, to my knowledge, are homosexual? Or, for that matter, Communist? And that it‘s not contagious?”
“Didn’t get the chance. He wailed on me.”
“Jacob, do you think he has a point?” Kulik asked.
“Jesus Christ, Doc! You’re like a father to me, who cares if you’re purple or Red or gay or Japanese or whatever. Besides, you‘re in America now, so you‘re one of us.”
The professor smiled slightly. It was a Napoleon-like answer. His partner never seemed to accept the obvious answer - he always went for the least logical way. His gut, he called it. Nine times out of ten, his gut was right.
Kulik had to listen to his gut now.
“Jacob, I know that I told you that violence isn’t always the best way to solve things, that you should try diplomacy first. But sometimes you need to not listen to me. Or, rather, I should listen to myself and not to ghosts from my past. Tomorrow, we are not going to practice guitar.”
“We’re not?”
“No, boy. I’m going to teach you the proper way to fight off your attackers. You may not believe this, but I used to be able to fend off trained assassins in my youth.”
“You’re right. I don’t believe it. Is this one of your Mob tricks?”
Kulik yelped. “For the last time, Jacob, I was not in the Mob. Now, do you want to learn how or not?”
The boy looked at his reflection in the polished lamp on the table next to him. He looked even worse than he felt. He swallowed hard and nodded his head.
“Good,” Kulik said briskly. “Now. Drink up. I’ll accompany you home.”
Kulik and Jacob walked back to the Liebhaber home. Jacob ran upstairs to avoid seeing his mother. “Doc!” he called down the stairs. “Don’t say a word.”
Kulik shook his head, but agreed. When he went back home, he put a record on his set and laid down on his couch, propping his legs up with a fluffy pillow. He started to drowse, memories coming to the surface and taking root.
“I’ve heard rumours that you’re a little light in the loafers there, Kuryakin,” said Belk, a Section Three. “I heard rumours that you’ve got the hots for your partner.”
“Well, Belk, I heard a rumour that you were fighting for your life in Medical,” said a soft, dangerously low voice behind him.
Belk turned around and was face to face with Napoleon Solo. The CEA’s eyes were narrowed, shooting daggers at him. “I would recommend that you leave Mr. Kuryakin alone and forget these ridiculous rumours. Obviously, it doesn’t matter a whit what he does or doesn’t do on his personal time. He’s an agent of UNCLE and, as such, he is worthy of the respect that you would give to any of us. Me, for instance. Mr. Waverly. Got it?”
Belk nodded and scurried down the hallway. Illya sagged against the wall. “Napoleon, I don’t need you to fight my battles for me. You do realize that it makes me look weak.”
“I don’t care. When they insult you, they also insult me, tovarisch.”
“It doesn’t mean anything, Napoleon. I’ve dealt with it all my life, a lowly Section Three with a big mouth isn’t going to change anything.”
Napoleon clasped his hand on Illya’s shoulder. “Tell you what. Why not come over to my place for the evening? We can have dinner. I’ve got leftover pot roast and a German Chocolate cake?”
“Sounds great.’
The two agents ate and talked through the evening. When Napoleon took the bottle of vodka out of the freezer and handed it to Illya, he smiled. “Want some?”
“Of course,” Illya said.
They both drank together, then Napoleon poured another shot and raised it for a toast. “To Illya Kuryakin. A man above all other men, first in the mind and heart of his partner.”
Illya paused in the middle of hoisting his own glass. “First in the mind and heart…”
Napoleon smiled. “First. Only. Always.”
Illya set his glass down. “First. Only. Always,” he repeated.
Napoleon reached across the table and grabbed Illya’s hand. “Tell me that what Belk said is only a rumour.”
Illya shook his head. “I can’t.”
“So…you have the hots for your partner, then?” His mouth curled a little, his eyes twinkling with delight.
“Napoleon, I…”
“Because, partner mine, I must tell you that the feeling is mutual. More than mutual.” Napoleon drew Illya’s hand closer to him, and stuck Illya’s finger in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the digit.
Illya gasped like he had been bitten by a snake. “Napoleon,” he whispered shakily. “What are you doing?”
“Something I’ve thought about for a long time,” Napoleon replied, “Years, really.”
Illya stood up hastily, jerking his hand out of Napoleon’s grasp. The dark haired man also leapt to his feet and in a few large steps was in front of the Russian. “Tell me that you don’t feel it, Illya. Tell me and I’ll leave you alone.”
Illya opened his mouth to tell the lie, but found that he couldn’t speak. Napoleon smiled. “You feel it. I know you do. You want it as much as I do.”
Illya could only nod his acceptance.
“So you see why I had to do what I did to Belk. I only have my reputation protecting me. But when I stop flirting with every skirt that walks into UNCLE headquarters, they’ll start about me, too.”
“Why would you stop flirting with girls? You’re so good at it.”
Napoleon laughed. “Oh, Illya. For being an intelligent man, sometimes you ask the most stupid questions.” He grabbed him by the shoulders, pulled him close and kissed him.
November, 1972
It would have been Illya’s 41st birthday. Napoleon would have taken him out to dinner at some fancy steak house, took him back to their apartment, stripped him down and made love to him relentlessly. It was their usual way to celebrating, and to Napoleon it felt like the best way.
The New York city skyline blurred against the unceasing rain. He stood near the window of his apartment, Scotch in hand, his robe wrapped tightly around him. Napoleon drank and looked out the window, Roberta Flack’s voice drifting out of the record player around him, like the memories that swirled within him.
The first time ever I kissed your mouth
I felt the earth turn in my hand
Like the trembling heart of a captive bird…
He had felt that way about Illya. He still felt that way about him. The loneliness was crushing, debilitating, and it seemed that every day became more and more difficult to bear.
The rain continued to beat down, matching Napoleon’s dark mood.
The first time ever I lay with you
And felt your heart beat close to mine
I thought our joy would fill the earth…
He wondered if Illya was out there looking at the sky wherever he was. Napoleon wondered if he was as alone and lonely as he was. He hoped that Illya was happy. His partner had such a remarkable smile that he rarely showed the world, and it was Napoleon’s greatest pleasure to see that smile focused in his direction. Illya’s eyes were beautiful and his body delightful, but his smile was the thing that sent warmth throughout his body and chills up his spine. The smile that was so rare, so valued, and so desired.
He remembered the first time Illya smiled at him. They had only been working partners for three weeks, and it had been a particularly trying affair. The innocent, a woman named Patsy, apparently had eyes only for the Russian. Napoleon’s charms did not work in the slightest.
“Hey, Illya,” Napoleon said. “I wonder if you can get her to follow that THRUSH dame into the ladies’ room?”
“Why do you think I’m the one to do such a thing?”
“Are you blind? She’s goo-goo for you.”
Illya’s ears turned a light pink color. He looked a little…bashful? “Napoleon, surely you don’t think…”
“Yes, I think, and I know, too. Just do something, Illya. That little chickie is getting away and we need to learn her bird song.”
Illya frowned, but walked over to Patsy and whispered in her ear. She nodded furiously and all but ran to the ladies’ room. He walked back to Napoleon and shot him a slight grin. The power of that small gesture made the hair on Napoleon’s neck stand up. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling.
The song ended on the record, and Napoleon reached over, picked up the needle and put it on the well worn groove again. Roberta started her lover’s lullaby again as Napoleon’s forehead pressed against the cool glass of the window.
He missed his partner so much.
August, 1973
In a few short years, Napoleon Solo had become a world renown expert in Imperial Russian artifacts. Solo and Associates had become a leader in the field. He had studied all over the world, given lectures at Ivy League campuses and art museums across Europe. The colleagues that he worked with at various universities throughout America all said the same thing: that Mr. Solo was driven toward his work, that he lived and breathed the nuances of the items he worked with, and that he was almost obsessed with a miniature that he carried with him everywhere he went.
There were a few colleges that he had not spoken at, mostly in the Midwest and Deep South, where their Slavic studies departments were either small or non-existent. He found himself retreating more and more into the discovery of new items and less on the actual academic study. The few people he worked closely with found that he was a difficult man to know, and that he seemed to have a different reason to search out these rare and previous relics than they had.
It was almost as if he was trying to bring someone back from the dead.
He had started to become reclusive; and yet he was still charming. The women in the various offices he would visit would in turns sigh and swoon at the well turned man with perfect suits and distinguished graying at his temples. His eyes were dark and stormy, and his walk? Confident, cool, authoritative. Here was a man who understood the concept of power. However, from all apparent evidence, Mr. Solo was not prepared to take advantage of any situation. He was more likely to walk into a room quietly, take a quick assessment of the items and note them, then go back to his Fifth Avenue apartment in New York and do his research there.
It wasn’t that he was difficult to work with, it was that he was impossible to work with. Solo and Associates was a misnomer - the company was Mr. Solo alone. He never made himself available to his colleagues and other researchers, and when he began a job in earnest, he worked around the clock. He usually only took small breaks, eating Italian food at a small café in Greenwich Village of all places, or spending an inordinate amount of time looking at the miniature that never left his side.
He was driven, haunted by ghosts of an unknown nature. The demons that followed him were many, and they shadowed everything he did. The people he worked with knew better than to ask, but they whispered among themselves. There were rumors, of course; the miniature belonged to a late wife, or a former girlfriend, or the one that got away. They knew Mr. Solo would never admit or substantiate, so that’s all they were - rumors.
To a person, they always thought the same thing: Whoever she was…I hope she was worth it.