What if April and Illya were partners, Napoleon and Mark best buds and partners.
THE MORE I KNOW YOU
It had seemed to April as though she had been waiting forever. She had been through one temporary partner after another; agents on temporary transfer, or whose own partners were on leave. She suspected though, that the truth of the matter was that despite Mister Waverly's high praise of her abilities and her intelligence, he had been having difficulty finding a partner for her that firstly, would be a good fit, and secondly, was willing to be partnered with a girl.
When he called her into his office and told her that her permanent partnership had been decided and finalized, she had been both delighted and apprehensive. Then he revealed her new partner's identity, and her heart had done a double flip.
Illya Nikovitch Kuryakin.
He had already spoken to Mister Kuryakin it seemed, because the Russian had had to rush away to a meeting in lieu of Mister Solo whom was still away on assignment with his partner. She had had a secret crush on Kuryakin since the first moment she had laid eyes on him, and knowing her place and her role, had been severe with herself for acting like a schoolgirl. The upshot was that on the few occasions their paths had crossed, she had been brisk with him. Not that he had noticed.
Kuryakin had been, like herself, floating around the New York office for over a year, unable to find and keep a partner. He excelled at everything he did, and many of those whom had fallen by the wayside had done so because they had simply been unable to keep up.
Then there was the man's personality. He might have a great sense of humour or an engaging laugh, but if so, April had seen no sign of it.
He remained straight-faced and slightly dour-looking all the time, especially when he was concentrating on his work; and no one had ever reported being in a position to see him in a relaxed atmosphere. None of the girls at HQ had succeeded in getting a date with him, even though they would all have given a months' pay for the opportunity.
Only one man at HQ had seemed to have any success in penetrating the frosty Russian's protective shell, and that was Illya's immediate superior, the CEA Napoleon Solo.
As Illya was the Number 2 operative, he was the one who took over the running of section two when Slate and Solo were away on assignment, or on sick-leave; and therefore, he and Napoleon were frequently in conference together, sharing information and making plans on deployments.
April was not alone in believing that had Waverly chosen to partner Solo with the Russian, they would have got on, as they say, like a house on fire. But in the end, Slate was the one chosen, and he and Napoleon were thick as thieves together. She had simply hoped that she and Illya would get on okay, and be able to cooperate. She had not had much more hope than that at first, because she had been as much in awe of him as everyone else.
Little had she known!
She recalled their first day as official partners in every single detail. After returning to HQ following his meeting, Illya had approached her table in the commissary, and removing those awful dark glasses he always wore, asked her if he could sit.
"Of course, Mister Kuryakin. You're very welcome."
He smiled a shy little smile…she had seen that smile only once before. He dumped his tray on the table and sat down.
"Mister Waverly has informed me that you and I are to become partners. He says that we would be a good fit." He looked up shyly at her and the smile briefly returned. "I am inclined to agree with him."
April was surprised.
"Really? That's great! I mean…" suddenly unsure if she had given herself away, she turned pink and cleared her throat.
"It would seem to make sense. We both seemed doomed to working alone. The scary Russian and the Girl. It makes sense to put us together."
Illya choked on his soup and had to take a drink of water.
"What was that you called me? Scary Russian?"
He was actually chuckling appreciatively at the thought of being called scary. April was watching, and somehow the only thought going through her mind was how pretty he looked, when he smiled or laughed.
"Does everybody see me that way Miss Dancer, or are you the only one?"
April couldn't help but smile back.
"I don't know about all…but I would say most people see you that way. If we are now partners, by the way, you had better call me April."
"Illya. Do you think I am scary, partner?"
"Are you going to eat that dinner before it gets cold?"
"It is a salad. It is supposed to be cold. Do you think I am scary?"
"Well, eat it before it gets warm then."
"I am eating it. Why won't you answer my question?"
She grinned at him, suddenly seeing him in a new light.
"When you know me well, you will have your answer. I would like to ask you one question though."
He looked up at the serious tone of voice, and nodded thoughtfully.
"You are wondering why I did not object to being partnered with you, being as you are female, correct?"
"Bingo."
"I have observed you in action in the gym, in the firing range, and on occasion, in the field. Also, as deputy CEA, I get to see the mission reports, and sign off on them whenever Mister Solo is unavailable. In fact, I have on occasion been asked to complete his paperwork for him…I have had the chance to read some of your reports. You are a very good agent and one would be a fool to refuse to partner you based on your gender."
April nodded, unsure what to say. It all sounded so very precise and clinical. Very much the scientific appraisal she had half come to expect from Agent Kuryakin. Then, he floored her with his next remark, so offhand, almost casual;
"Also, I like you."
And so, they had begun working missions together. As she got to know him, she realized how little everyone else knew the real man behind the frosty façade. On the surface, certainly, he was the fearsome, awe-inspiring agent that managed to intimidate most of the staff at HQ, an expert at hand to hand combat with a veritable mouthful of languages; but she learned he was so much more than that.
She had observed her partner's anger over the injustice they encountered, watched him tenderly pick up a weeping child with the gentleness of a loving father, and spend a long hour comforting him until the mother had been found.
When she was scratched by a stray THRUSH bullet, his gentleness in binding up her wound and attention to detail showed his concern without his having to say a word; and when she wept at the senseless murder of the innocent wife of a THRUSH captain, she had been comforted by her partner, who hugged her until she stopped trembling, and whose quick, slightly shaky breaths in her ear gave away his own distress.
No, the scary Russian was all on the surface. She suspected even Napoleon Solo did not see what only she was privileged to see. The man beneath the mask. The kind, caring and surprisingly vulnerable Illya that he kept carefully hidden from everyone but her.
Within a few weeks, Illya had learned her entire life story from the day she was born, and had even met some of her immediate family members.
She, on the other hand, had learned very little about his background. He revealed the odd tidbit now and then, but these atomic particles of information served rather to intensify and feed her interest and curiosity rather than satisfy it. Curiously, though, she found that she did not resent his reticence. The little she had gleaned had been enough to make her realize that his refusal to talk about his past had more to do with survival than secrecy or privacy.
Their being male and female made undercover operations a cinch in comparison to some partnerships. Being able to pose as a married couple, honeymooners, siblings or colleagues, boss and secretary; the possibilities they found were almost endless.
Celebrating the anniversary of the first month of their very successful partnership, they found themselves deciding to celebrate in privacy. Illya had grinned at her.
"A celebratory dinner is a good idea April, but for a change, allow me to cook for you."
A delighted grin caught the edge of her mouth before she managed to suppress it.
"You can cook!?"
"April, a man such as I who enjoys his food could not be truly happy if he could not cook!"
"Sorry, it's just I never imagined you wearing an apron! Thanks partner, that would be great. I'll bring the wine…and vodka!"
She had been interested to see what sort of apartment he lived in. She had seen the inside of Napoleon's apartment during a dinner-party, and the by-word had been luxurious.
Mark Slate's apartment was comfortable and practical, clearly designed by someone who intended to spend as little time as possible cooking and cleaning. Would Illya veer towards the luxurious? Surely not. Practicality then, like Mark's place?
To her surprise, she found Illya's apartment was simple and elegant. He had few soft furnishings. Carpets made way for stone tiles. The walls were painted light green, the windows screened by black blinds, but no curtains. No sofa, but two black leather armchairs sat either side of a long haired, very fluffy thick white rug with a comfortable looking black and white cat curled up asleep on it, before an open fireplace that had been redesigned to hold nothing more than a vase of flowers. The mantel held a brass Russian Samovar teapot with an ebony handle, with two matching stacking cups beside it, and a photograph of a handsome dark haired young woman with a two year old child in her arms, a little boy with white-blond hair and startlingly blue eyes.
The room was otherwise empty, save for a black stained wooden dinner table with two chairs, and two large bulky looking cases that were obviously musical instruments. April could not guess what they could have been.
His kitchen was rather sparse. Little in the way of gadgets or conveniences, but his oven was clearly brand new.
He cooked for her a number of Russian dishes, and watched with a knowing grin as she tentatively, then enthusiastically tried each one. When they had finished, they sat in the armchairs, drinks in hand. April gestured to the photo on the mantel.
"Illya, can I ask…who are they in the photograph?"
Illya picked it up briefly, and smiled down longingly at the picture.
"Sorry my friend…I am not ready to talk about them just yet. People I…"
April watched in sympathy as he swallowed something, then replaced the picture. She refrained from apologizing for her question, knowing that would only make him feel more uncomfortable, and her attention was drawn once again to the two bulky cases in the corner of the room.
"Illya, I have been staring at those cases all evening and I have to ask...what are they?"
"The larger one is a cello, the other is my grandfather's balalaika."
"You play?"
At his nod, she looked impressed.
"You know Illya, you hide so much of yourself at headquarters. If everyone knew you as I have come to know you…"
"…my life would become more complicated."
"And yet you were surprised when you learned that people think you are scary."
He grinned.
"Well, I have never thought about it. I've never tried to be scary or intimidating. It's just me. Now, are you going to answer my question, partner, and tell me whether you too believed that I was scary?"
April burst out laughing.
"Are you still thinking about that? What does that amazingly bright brain of yours surmise?"
"I think you were." Illya replied with a grin. "I think that is why you were always snappy with me before we were partnered. It wasn't snappiness. You were nervous."
"Oh no, that was…" April began and stopped herself before she said too much. She caught Illya's astonished eye on her and groaned. She could see the light of illumination hit him as clearly as though switching on a light.
"April…tell me the truth!"
"No."
"You promised to always tell the truth to your partner. That is me, in case you have forgotten."
"No!"
"April, if you don't tell, I will tickle you until you scream for mercy!"
"Try it Kuryakin, and see who loses!"
"You will. I'm not ticklish."
April grinned impishly.
"I think you are. We'll soon see, won't we?"
As the sun went down, April Dancer and her partner Illya Kuryakin engaged in the first of what would, over the years, become a running battle for supremacy…which of them would be the first to scream for mercy in a barrage of tickling…
