Illya Kuryakin was expecting the knock on the door and knew exactly who it would be.

"It is open Napoleon," he yelled.

Solo entered the apartment, unsure of what he'd find. In his hand was the letter which had been left on Mr Waverly's desk. He located the Russian in the bedroom, where he was packing his meagre wardrobe into a bag.

"What's this?" He demanded, holding the envelope up.

"It is a letter," Illya glibly replied.

"You know exactly what I'm asking," Napoleon countered. "Why have you resigned after only six months?"

"My reasons are in your hand."

Napoleon pulled the letter from the envelope and scanned it until he found the line he wanted.

"I am unable to continue my service with the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement due to a clash of nationalities," he quoted.

"It seems perfectly clear to me," Illya pointed out, as he continued to pack.

"It explains the why, but not the wherefore. Do I take it you're experiencing some anti-Russian prejudice?"

Illya sighed heavily, deciding it was probably easier just to tell Napoleon the whole truth.

He'd always known being a soviet in America was going to be difficult, but had hoped his colleagues would be accepting. The vast majority of U.N.C.L.E. New York had been welcoming and for that he had been grateful. However, there was group of four men who were openly hostile to him. They had made it abundantly clear that he was neither wanted nor needed.

Ordinarily, Illya wouldn't care what people thought or said about him, but it was different with these four. They made snide comments at every opportunity, though never in the hearing of anyone else, and managed to 'accidently' knock into him in the corridors. There had even been a couple of times when Illya had been alone and the four men had decided he needed to be taught a physical and painful lesson. They'd always made sure that all marks and bruises were hidden, so as not to arouse the suspicions of the commie's over-protective partner. Despite being more than capable of taking care of the problem, Illya said and did nothing. He hadn't been in the country long and was reluctant to make waves.

"Most people have accepted me," Illya continued, "But there a few who are making me question my decision to come here. To some people, Russia and America should never mix. They blame the whole populace for the politics of our government. Though admittedly, we were taught to think the same way about the USA."

"It isn't that I don't believe you Illya, but U.N.C.L.E. is an international, non-partisan organisation. Our building may be in America but it isn't American. I find it hard to believe that someone at HQ could push you to this; especially someone of your integrity."

"Go and sit down Napoleon. I'll make some tea."

The American knew that Illya was only making tea to give him time to gather his emotions. While he waited, he thought about everyone at HQ, trying to decide who it might be that had upset his partner so much. No-one came to mind. As far as he was aware, everyone had welcomed the Russian and he told as much to Illya when he was handed a glass of tea.

"Just because you haven't seen and haven't heard what is going on, does that mean you're refusing to speak about it?"

"That isn't what I'm saying Illya," Napoleon said quickly, trying to placate him. "I suppose I just find it difficult to accept that this sort of bullying is going on and that you, of all people, are letting it get to you. Most of all, I struggle to understand why you didn't tell me. It isn't just a question of you being my partner and friend, but I'm the CEA. As such, I need to know these things. How else is it supposed to get sorted out? Your running away won't change their attitudes."

Illya glared at Napoleon. When Solo had first been on the receiving end of a frosty Kuryakin stare, it had chilled him. Now though, he knew him a bit better and he knew it was just the man's way of telling him to back off.

"How would that look?" The Russian snapped. "Running to you and telling tales would hardly gain their respect."

"You accuse me of not seeing what is going on, yet you do see it and let it slide." Napoleon was becoming exasperated. "You were in the KGB and the Navy; surely there was chain of command to which you reported any problems."

"Of course there was."

"Then why is this different?"

Illya had no real answer. He really couldn't explain why he'd felt the need to hide this problem, or even why he hadn't dealt with it himself.

"I like it here," he said eventually. "Not just at U.N.C.L.E. New York, but America in general. I like the freedom I have here and I didn't want to jeopardise it."

"Leaving U.N.C.L.E. could mean having to leave the country," Napoleon told him gently.

"I have a PhD in Quantum Mechanics; I would have found employment easily," Illya replied, with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Would have?" Napoleon queried. "Does that mean you're having a change of heart?"

Illya told his partner that he would give it one more month. In turn, Napoleon insisted that Illya gave him the names of those involved and an account of everything they had done.

"Now all you have to do is face Mr Waverly,"

"Oh, that never crossed my mind," Illya muttered, forlornly. "As if I didn't already feel foolish."

"Tell you what Tovarisch," Napoleon began, throwing the man a lifeline. "I'll go and explain the situation. I'll also ask him to authorise two days off for you. That should give me enough time to investigate the people on the list you gave me."

"I don't know how to thank you Napoleon."

"That's easy, blockhead," Solo replied. "You thank me by trusting me. You trust me in the field, so the same should be true at home."

Illya raised his tea glass to toast his friend.

"Spaciba Tovarisch."

The End.