"....And so," Director Alexander Waverly was saying, and elderly man in his early sixties, "I shall be absent for about a week, and I am leaving you, Mr. Solo, in chare of the base until I return."

Special Agent Napoleon Solo smiled appreciatively, sneaking his straw-haired partner a significant, hazel-eyed expression that clearly said something to the effect of, 'Watch out!' The look that Illya Kuryakin gave back was one of clear defiance, daring him to try to force down his throat any of the things that Waverky got away with, like marooning them for days on a small inflated raft of the coast of Janaica, or sending both younger agents into a situation where, as the old man had clearly pointed out, both of them were most definitely expendable.

"Thank you, sir," Napoleon replied to Mr. Waverly as the director of Base One moved to exit is office, "It's an honor."

"Don't remind me," Waverly remarked dryly, "I'll see you both in a week." With that, the man passed over the threshhold of his office, leaving Napoleon Solo in charge of an entire baseful of agents all working for the U.N.C.L.E.

"So, Illya," said the dark-haired American, taking a seat on Waverly's spinning table and giving the floor a good kick, send him around and around in lazy circles around the peremeter of the table, "You're at my mercy now."

"Don't remind me," Illya retorted, echoing Waverly's parting statement and moving to sit in the director's chair, which was decidedly more comfortable than any of the others.

"Yeah, yeah," Napoleon rolled his eyes, giving the floor another good kick, though picking up his speed only fractionally, "So now that I've got the power, what are you going to do?"

Illya surveyed Napoleon, his senior only by three years and several inches in height, with skeptical blue eyes.

"I'm going to get out of New York before you kill me."

The next day, the first day of Agent Solo's potentially tyrannical reign, Illya Kuryakin got a gut feeling of absolute dread. Something bad was going to happen, he just knew it. It was as inevitable as sunrise and sunset, from his opinion. And Kuryakin's gut feelings were seldom wrong.

Much to the contrary, however, Illya's trip through the base was satisfactorily quiet, and the young Russian began to feel that maybe Napoleon's being in charge wouldn't be so bad after all. Entering the Director's Office, he came in to see Napoleon spinning around and around on that stupid tabletop again.

"Good morning, Illya," Napoleon beamed at the sight of his good friend, who kept vanishing out of sight at one-second intervals until he finally stopped the table's dizzying trip with one shiny, black-shoed foot, "How is everything so far? Okay?"

"Yes, everything's fine," Illya replied, a bit suspicious, "Why should it not be?"

"Ah, no reason, just checking," Napoleon answered back with a serne shrug, "It is my first day in the office, after all. Coffee?"

Illya noticed the steaming coffee pot on a small table in a corner of the office and nodded eagerly. "Yes, thank you," he said, moving to pour himself a cup of steaming hot elixir. As he did so, he was unable to notice the predatorial gleam that sprang into Napoleon's eye when he raised the cup to his mouth to drink.

HACK! COUGH! SPIT!

Illya gagged on the horrible taste that assaulted his tongue after he took a big sip of the stuff. Spluttering, he grabbed another cup, filled it with water from the cooler, and swallowed it, hoping to wash out the taste before he turned on his American friend, who was now laughing hysterically.

"Salt!" Illya cried furiously, "You put salt in the coffee!"

Napoleon nodded with the glee of a successful serial killer. "I just couldn't resist, Illya...I'm sorry..."

But Illya Kuryakin wasn't in quite a forgiving mood. Slamming the now empty cup of water on the table beside the cup of spoiled coffe, the Russian vowed, "You'll regret this!" and stormed out of the office.

Next up - Illya's revenge!