Note to readers: I have no problem using swear words if it is necessary for the story. But there is a word that I find more offensive than any swear word I can think of. This story requires the use of the "N" word. I have battled with myself for several days, but I have decided not to type out the whole word. There will be an N and some asterisks. I apologize if it spoils your reading experience. This is a deeply personal decision.
Perish Together as Fools
She was the most exotic and beautiful thing he had ever seen and Illya Kuryakin had seen his share of beautiful women. He'd even dated more than a few. But this woman took his breath away. She was slender but shapely, with long legs that were currently covered with nothing but a pair of shorts that were filled out with a fine round ass. Her breasts were average, but barely hidden by the halter top she wore. Her skin was a deep chocolate brown, her eyes so dark brown they were nearly black, and her lips were full and sensual. She wore a short Afro that American blacks were so fond of nowadays.
She was sitting on the front stoop of his apartment building, reading a book. She looked up as he passed on the way up the stairs. She threw him a pleasant smile and returned to her book. Illya paused at the top of the stoop and looked back down at her, his interest piqued. He had never seen her before and wondered if she had just moved in or was just visiting someone. He contemplated whether or not to go back down and say something to her. Napoleon Solo, his partner at UNCLE, wouldn't even have hesitated. But he wasn't Napoleon. He turned back to the door and went inside.
It had been a long week. He and Napoleon had just returned from Venezuela. It had been a milk run. A local political leader was being threatened by local rebels. Their job had been to protect the incumbent during an election that the rebels did not want to happen. The election took place, the incumbent was re-elected and the situation cooled down to its usual unrest.
Napoleon had instantly disliked the politico they were assigned to protect. Illya didn't really care. One heavy handed despot was pretty much the same as the next. He was just glad to be home. After collecting his mail, he took the steps up to his fourth floor flat and unlocked the door. His usual booby trap of a piece of string placed in the door jamb was still there. No one had entered his apartment while he was gone, by the door at least. He entered and pulled the deadbolt closed behind him.
It was stuffy after a week of being closed up. He took off his jacket and hung it in the entryway closet and removed his gun and shoulder holster, hanging them on a hook near the door. He walked into the living room, loosening his tie. Going to the window, he checked the deadfall he'd left, similar to the door's, finding it still in place. With a wrench and a loud screech the window opened.
He took a deep breath of the semi-fresh air, only mildly bothered by the smell of exhaust. Welcome back to New York City.
He fixed himself a bowl of soup; thank God for Campbell's. Grabbing a beer from the refrigerator, he settled down to dinner and sorted through the mail while he ate. Nothing interesting; only bills and junk mail. When done eating, he washed up the few dishes he'd used.
He was still putting away the dishes when he heard a cat outside his window. He smiled to himself and went to look out the open window.
Waiting for him was a huge tomcat that had recently taken up residence on the fire escape. It was a big orange tabby with tattered ears and a scar across his nose. He'd no doubt been in more than his share of fights. Illya found himself hoping the cat had at least gotten the girl occasionally. Obviously feral and homeless, the cat was also fastidious. It spent hours grooming himself in the sun outside the window. Sometimes Illya could coax the beast into his apartment and once the cat had even let the Russian hold him.
"Hungry, are you?" He asked the creature. It meowed at him plaintively. "I'll take that as a yes."
He went to the kitchen and found a small can of tuna that he opened and placed it in a bowl. He leaned out the window and placed the bowl on the metal grate. "Here you go, Napoleon." He gave the cat a quick pet and started to withdraw back into his apartment when he heard a soft laugh from the fire escape next to his.
"Nobody else has ever gotten close to that monster." the husky female voice said. He looked over and was surprised to see the girl from the stoop. She had kicked off her shoes but was still clad in shorts and halter top. She was sitting out on the fire escape, her bare feet braced against the brick wall. There was enough bare skin exposed to make Illya's pulse kick up a notch.
"Hello," he said. "I thought I saw you on the stoop?"
She shrugged. "I was. Thought I'd come up and see if you came out to feed monster kitty there."
"I try to feed him when I can. He needs a friend." He shrugged. Making a snap decision, he crawled out of the window and onto the fire escape next to the cat.
"I heard you call him Napoleon. Great name."
Illya chuckled. "I named him after a friend. Napoleon is quite the ladies man. This scrappy fellow seems to like the ladies also."
"You actually know someone named Napoleon? What did his parents have against him?"
Illya now laughed openly. "He doesn't seem to mind."
She was grinning at him, showing him perfect white teeth. Damn, she was lovely.
"My name is Pam Abernathy," she said. "Yours?"
"Illya Kuryakin."
Her eyebrows rose. "Now I understand why you don't think Napoleon is a weird name." She said it teasingly.
"It's Russian."
"I thought so," she declared. "I've been trying to place your accent. I had it narrowed down to Eastern European or Russian."
"Well, that does cover quite a bit of territory," he teased back.
"Good point," she replied, unconcerned.
Illya settled himself more comfortably, sitting so he could see Pam better. "When did you move in? I'm sure I haven't seen you before."
"Oh, about 4 months ago. I've seen you a couple of times, but you seemed to be concentrating on something else."
"Then I'm more of an idiot than I suspected. I would have remembered you if I saw you."
"I'll take that as a complement."
"I meant it as a complement."
She grinned again. "I was actually waiting for you on the stoop."
Illya was surprised. "Why didn't you say something?"
Pam shrugged. "I almost did. But I chickened out. Then after you went in, I decided to wait for you out here. I knew if the cat showed up, you'd feed him."
"You don't seem the chicken type."
"I'm very attracted to you. It makes me nervous."
Illya felt jolt of adrenaline at her words and felt absurdly wonderful. She looked him boldly in the eyes.
Her eyes were exquisite. They were almond shaped, rimmed in dark lashes. And the darkness of them made him feel as if he were falling into them.
"You have the most beautiful eyes," she said.
Illya started. "I was thinking the same thing about you."
They stared at each other and Illya wondered how to take this to the next level. Suddenly the big cat crawled into Illya's lap and started purring loudly. Bad timing, he thought irritably. But Pam laughed.
"I've never gotten within 10 feet of him. And I've tried. He trusts you."
"I'm a trustworthy guy."
Pam shifted and folded her arms in front of her. She gazed affectionately at the cat.
The moment of opportunity had passed.
They talked as the evening sun dropped behind the buildings, producing deep shadows that slashed across their metal perches. A slight chill took the place of the warm afternoon sun.
Illya learned that she was a waitress at a Harlem restaurant. She had just graduated from Columbia with an MS in Biology. She was having a great deal of trouble finding a decent job. Ever since the Harlem riots, opportunities for her, scarce before, had dried up. People were scared.
It made Illya feel outraged at his adopted country. He was still a Soviet citizen but New York was his home. How could people deny this special person her rightful place in life?
Prejudice was nothing new to him. As a Russian, he was treated with suspicion and hostility by many people. Not all, but enough to know the sting of hate. Even one of his own neighbors gave him grief over being a communist. He mostly just ignored it. But it hurt that this exquisite
woman suffered from bigotry also.
They talked until eventually Napoleon the cat stretched and stalked off, eager to make his nightly prowls.
Pam stood up also and stretched like the cat. "It was great talking to you. I'm glad that you turned out to be a nice guy. I was afraid you'd turn out to be a creep."
Illya loved her forthrightness. "We nice guys try very hard not to be creepy."
She giggled. "Goodnight, Comrade Illya. I hope to see you soon." She blew him a kiss and crawled back into her apartment, her ample ass waving enticingly in the process. Illya knew she was doing it on purpose and didn't mind a bit. Once inside she leaned back out and waved a final goodbye, shutting her window behind her.
Illya sat on the fire escape for a little while longer.
It had been a long time since he had felt this drawn to a woman. Her mixture of boldness and sauciness combined with an intelligence that was evident as they talked, was very attractive to him. He knew that he was going to pursue her and hoped that she would find him as attractive as he found her.
He went back inside and went to bed, dreaming about her long legs and enticing eyes
XXXXX
Napoleon Solo eyed his partner curiously. That was the third time Illya had ceased typing and stared off into space. It wasn't like him. Usually his typewriter clacked away confidently until his report was done. Surely there was nothing about the last assignment that he had to think about how to phrase. No, obviously he was bothered by something else.
"Earth to Illya," he ventured.
Illya startled and looked at him in embarrassment. "What?"
"That's the third time I've caught you daydreaming. What's up?"
The Russian just shook his head. "Nothing. Didn't sleep well."
Napoleon wasn't buying it. "Usually if that's the case you lean back in your chair and snore and drool."
Illya frowned at him. "I do not."
"Hmmm. Denial," Napoleon said calculatingly. He pondered for a few minutes as Illya resumed his typing. "Girl," he said finally. "You always get moony when it involves a girl."
"I do not and it doesn't involve a girl."
"Aha! So there is an it!"
Illya snorted in annoyance. "You are impossible. There is nothing wrong."
After a few moments, "Okay. I believe you."
That surprised Illya. He looked at Napoleon suspiciously. But Napoleon merely looked placidly back at him. He went back to his typing. Napoleon turned back to his own typewriter, a small smile quirking at his lips. Illya had a secret and he would find out what it was.
XXXXX
Illya Kuryakin was surprised at himself at how eagerly he anticipated coming back to his apartment after work. He emerged from the subway into the sunlight and headed down the three blocks to his apartment building. He was hoping that Pam was waiting for him on the stoop as she had last night, but he also knew that if she wasn't, he would knock on her apartment door.
He was a trifle disappointed when he did not see her on the stoop, but shook it off. He would go to her apartment, invite her to dinner and see how that worked out. Therefore, he was surprised to see her standing in front of his own door, waiting for him.
"Comrade!" She called as he strode down the hall toward her. She was dressed for dinner and he smiled to himself. She was a bold minx. But he also noted how gorgeous she looked in her mini skirt and knee high boots. She was ablaze in bright orange paisley.
He stopped in front of her, judging her receptiveness and then leaned in to kiss her boldly on the mouth. She returned the kiss eagerly and he found himself entangled in several moments of passionate kissing. They pulled apart and Illya found himself short of breath, but relieved and very happy.
"Damn, you kiss good," Pam said breathlessly. He felt ridiculously good at the compliment.
"I was inspired."
She giggled. "Well, where to?" He hesitated and she continued. "Dinner?"
He laughed. "You're pretty sure of me."
She shook her head. "Nah. I'm not sure at all. But I like you and I'm not willing to let you have a chance to walk away." She gazed at him with a smile. "You are sexy as hell, my little Russian. And I want a chance to explore behind the iron curtain."
He couldn't help but laugh at her boldness. "Perhaps it would be better if the iron curtain came to you. I know a great place. Just a few blocks from here."
He took out his key and opened his door. "Just let me change my jacket." She followed him in and waited in the entryway. Illya hurried to his bedroom and took off his jacket and then his gun and holster. He placed both in the closet and reached for a fresh jacket. He returned to the hall.
She was waiting there with a smile. "Comrade, you look so handsome in your jacket that looks the same as the one you were just wearing."
He offered her his arm. "You'd better get used to it. I have a whole closet full of them."
She placed her arm through his and grinned at him. With her high heeled boots she was a couple of inches taller than him. Illya could have cared less. He grinned back and they left the apartment building.
They ended up at a restaurant that had a live jazz band and a small dance floor. Dinner was delightful. They talked easily and little by little, Illya shared some of his background. He rarely talked about his life in Russia but Pam seemed to bring out the need to tell her who he was. He did not, of course, tell her that he was an agent for UNCLE. There was nothing inherently secret about that and he was not prevented by any rules from telling her what he did for a living. But his own innate cautiousness prevented him from telling her the truth. There was time for that. If the relationship got serious, he would tell her. But until then he merely referred obliquely to his job at an import/export company.
She told him that she had been raised in a small town in Alabama. He was surprised because she only had a trace of an accent. She informed him that both her parents were educators who firmly believed that the only way to get ahead in America was to speak 'correctly.' Being black and southern was not going to hamper their children from succeeding. What may have hampered her, she confessed, was that she had worked very briefly for the Black Panthers in their free breakfast for children program. The FBI probably had her on a variety of lists that labeled her as a threat. Illya only responded that he was probably on the same lists as a Soviet Communist.
They danced. Fast, slow, in between. They returned to their table only to refresh themselves with drinks and then headed back out to the dance floor. By the end of the evening, Illya knew he was besotted. About midnight, they headed home, straight to Illya's apartment.
It was heavenly.
XXXXX
Napoleon Solo watched the couple as they danced. He knew Illya liked this club and was very likely to take a date there. He knew his motivation for 'spying' was less than honorable. But he was dying to know who had Illya, the stoic Russian, so tied up in knots. It wasn't as if Illya never dated, but he rarely fell in love. And Napoleon feared that Illya was very much falling in love.
He stood in the entry alcove, with the rest of the people waiting to be seated but he didn't go in. He saw what he needed to see and left.
Napoleon was not a bigot. He had dated a few black women, but knew that it wasn't the same. Those were simply liaisons, brief and unfettered. Well, for that matter, so were all his conquests. But he knew that Illya was different. He dated but wanted depth to his relationships. It was the reason the Russian was so careful about who he asked out. This new woman presented new problems.
Interracial dating-and marriage-was not unheard of. But it was rare. And unfortunately, it was usually met by prejudice and judgement. Evidently the girl and Illya had not noticed the crowd around them, but he had. The looks from other diners and dancers were subtle and unobvious, but the looks were there: curious, surprised, disapproving, and a few, angry.
He walked back to his car deep in thought. It was none of his business, he kept reminding himself. It didn't make any difference who Illya chose to date. Stay out of it.
And yet. He loved Illya like a brother. They'd been partners for five years. They'd lived and worked together closely for that long. They were best friends. How could he watch his friend deal with that kind of trouble? And how could he not? Because Illya happy was a glorious thing to behold. And Napoleon could tell he was happy. Damn.
He went home.
XXXXX
"Good morning, comrade," Pam purred.
Illya stirred and turned on his side to face her. He draped his arm across her bare belly and leaned over to kiss her languidly. "Good morning, krasivaya."
She giggled. "Are you calling me names?"
"It means beautiful."
"Oh, good. I thought maybe you are a spy and were trying to pass me Soviet secrets."
He smiled grimly and fell onto his back. She followed his movement and leaned into him, staring at him in concern. "Did I say something wrong?"
"No, you didn't." Illya warred with himself. This woman was so right. She could actually be the one. He looked up into those incredible eyes and made his decision.
He scooted up on the jumble of pillows until he was leaning against the headboard. He gently pulled Pam up with him. The sheet didn't follow them and their entwined brown and white bodies looked so lovely in the diffused morning light.
"I need to tell you something, Pam."
She frowned in concern. "If you tell me you're married, you could lose an appendage."
He laughed a strangled laugh. "No, no. Nothing like that." He thought for a moment. How to tell her without alienating her. After all, he had lied to her. Oh, well. He couldn't help that now.
"Pam, I am very attracted to you." She started to say something, but he placed his finger over her lips and shook his head. "I really would like to carry this relationship forward, but I can't do it on a lie."
Her eyes widened but she didn't say anything. "I told you that I worked for an import/export company. That's not true. It's just a cover story if anyone asks what I do for a living. I don't normally tell anyone what I do." He kissed her on the forehead. "But you're not anyone." He paused. "I guess there's no easy way to say it. Pam, I'm a spy. I'm an agent for UNCLE. The United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. You've heard of it?"
She was now looking at him with a frown. "You're spying on me?"
Illya jerked in surprise. "What? No! No, I'm just trying to tell you that I lead a very different life. Being an agent isn't easy. There's a lot of danger and travel. I'm gone a lot. I carry a gun. But UNCLE is not like the KGB or the CIA. It is an international organization, devoted to defeating threats that defy borders. It's a good organization. I should know. I once worked for the KGB. And I still have ties to Russia. I'm still considered an officer in the Soviet navy. I thought you needed to know the truth."
Pam was quiet for awhile, one fingernail trailing small circles on his bare shoulder. Finally she spoke. "I can't say the idea makes me jump for joy, but I can say that any organization that would welcome you can't be all bad. So, Comrade spy, where do we go from here?" She smiled a tentative smile.
Illya felt elated. "I don't know, but let's find out together."
Their kiss felt like freedom.
XXXXX
Napoleon said nothing to his friend. He stewed over it but kept coming up with the same answer. It was Illya's life to live; leave it alone. So he buried his concern and continued working with his partner as usual. They had another assignment within a few days. A nasty one that landed Illya in the UNCLE hospital with a concussion for a few days. Then after that it was a complicated extraction of a German scientist from China. Through it all, Illya was professional, capable, confident, and happy.
Happy. That was not a word that many people ever used to describe Illya Kuryakin. Taciturn, solitary, and serious, but not happy. Now he was and Napoleon confessed that the woman who made him that way couldn't be all bad.
XXXXX
The following weeks were a whirlwind. Two assignments (one landed him in medical) and lots of reports. But on the days and evenings he was home, Pam was Illya's only focus. They went out a lot. Dancing, dining, just listening to music. There were romantic strolls in the park. He took her to his favorite places in the Village and she took him to Harlem. They even saw Otis Redding at the Apollo. Sometimes they spent evenings in, either her apartment or his, sometimes just relaxing, sometimes out on the fire escape (Napoleon the cat still hadn't warmed up to her), and sometimes they just watched TV.
And every night was spent in her glorious arms.
This particular evening was one of those lazy evenings at home. They were out on the fire escape of Illya's apartment, enjoying the coolness of the evening. Pam lay comfortably in his arms and the cat was beside them, eying Pam with disdain. They were sharing a bottle of wine and the conversation had threaded its way through politics, religion and family with no traps. They didn't necessarily agree on everything but they didn't care. At one point Illya refilled their glasses.
"I'd like to propose a toast," he said formally.
Pam giggled. "Rather formal, aren't we?"
He acknowledged her with a nod. "It's meant to be." He held up his glass and waited for her to follow suit. "We've been together for one month and 17 days." He waited for her appreciative giggle. "They have been the happiest days I can ever remember. Pam, I love you."
She looked at him in wonderment. "You've never said that before."
"Because I am very careful to say what I mean. Pam, I do love you. Very much."
"Oh, Illya, I love you too!"
He kissed her gently but with feeling. Illya's head swam with sheer happiness. They hurried back into the apartment and didn't even make it to the bedroom. Napoleon the cat sat on the window sill and watched malevolently as they made love.
XXXXX
Illya finally worked up the courage to introduce her to Napoleon and the three of them had dinner together one evening. Napoleon was a genial dinner partner and kept up an interesting and amusing patter all evening. He related stories about Illya, much to the Russian's embarrassment. But Pam had been amused and Illya could deny her nothing. It was important to him that his best friend and his girlfriend got along. After all, they were the most important people in his life. He loved them both.
All his life he had been alone. At the tender age of 9, during the war, he had been orphaned, forced to fend for himself until the Soviet state placed him in an orphanage and basically controlled his life after that. It had not been a bad life but it had been devoid of love. Until he met Napoleon Solo and the unconditional friendship the man had offered. And now he had Pam.
So it was gratifying to him to see that they liked each other.
"It was a dud," Napoleon continued his story. "We were running as fast as we could, waiting for the explosion and nothing. Illya screwed up the bomb."
"What he fails to tell you is that I went back and repaired the mistake. The plant was blown up and the mission was a success."
"What he fails to tell you is that he nearly blew me up in the process."
"You were supposed to wait behind the wall," Illya said in exasperation.
"And let you screw it up again?"
Pam was laughing. Both men turned to her, grinning in spite of themselves.
"Listen to you two. You talk about these dangerous things like you were talking about the weather." She shook her head. "I hope I can get used to it."
Illya leaned over to kiss her. "You don't need to get used to it. We know our job."
Napoleon glanced away in discretion and noticed that several people at the neighboring tables were looking disapprovingly at the couple. He swung his glance away and noticed even more people on the other side looking their way with decidedly judgmental expressions. He returned the look of one particularly obnoxious dowager. She reddened and looked away. Bitch, he thought.
He turned back to his dinner partners and noticed Pam looking at him speculatively. He shrugged his shoulders. She nodded her head and the moment was over. Dinner continued as if nothing had happened.
He liked Pam. He could truly see what Illya saw in her. She was funny, smart and saucy. But mostly she was aware. Her eyes were wide open. If Illya couldn't see the problems ahead, Napoleon could tell that she did. And he approved heartily. Yes, she was quite a catch. He was happy for Illya.
He just wished he wasn't so worried.
XXXXX
The incident happened as the happy couple sprawled on a blanket in Central Park, enjoying a picnic lunch that Pam had prepared. It was a hot August day. The park was filled with people enjoying themselves. No one wanted to be indoors. He lay with his head in her lap, staring up into the trees. She was trying to braid his hair in what she referred to as corn rows. She was laughing and chatting as she toyed with his hair. He loved to hear her laugh.
"N***** bitch!"
Illya shot up into a sitting position immediately, looking around for whoever had shouted the offensive words. Two teenagers were running off, a man was glaring at them belligerently, and a couple was hurrying in another direction. He started to get up but Pam pulled him down.
"Don't!" She hissed. Illya gaped at her in surprise. "Just ignore it."
Illya glared back at the belligerent man who harrumphed and moved on. He turned his glare toward Pam. "Ignore it?" He growled.
Pam wrapped her arms around him. "Ignore it! Just ignore it. It never does any good to chase after them. Ignore it."
It took several minutes for the adrenaline which coursed through his body to dissipate. He pulled away from their embrace and placed his hands beseechingly on Pam's cheeks, holding her head in front of him, staring searchingly into her eyes. "This has happened to you before?"
She tried to lower her eyes but Illya jerked her head up again. She nodded her head within his grasp. "It doesn't help to fight. It just makes it worse. People who hate will hate. It doesn't matter what you say."
Illya was outraged. He'd known his own feelings when people expressed their dislike of him just for being Russian. But this was different. People had to know him well enough to learn of his origins. But with Pam, it was just the way she looked. Correction. It was the color of her skin.
He sat back on his heels and absently combed out the loose braids in his hair. "I don't know how you can get used to this?" He snapped.
She jerked as if slapped. "Did I say I was used to it?"
Illya looked back up at her. "Oh, Pam, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you." He grabbed her and held her close. "I love you, Pam. What hurts you, hurts me."
"I know." She said into his neck. "I just wish...". She couldn't finish. Illya just held her.
Finally they parted and began to pack up their little picnic.
XXXXX
Illya did not tell Napoleon about the incident but he had the strange feeling he already knew about it. If not the incident itself, than at least the racial prejudice involved. But he was also not prepared to talk about it. They were sent out on another assignment. This one lasted almost two weeks. It was a deep cover caper, with Illya undercover in disguise. It was intricate, dangerous and blessedly all time-consuming. Illya had no time to worry over the incident in the park.
Fortunately, it was a rousing success. The bad guys were dispatched, the secrets recovered and the two agents were on a plane back to the USA.
"You look exhausted," Napoleon commented as he buckled in.
"You look fresh as a daisy," Illya sniped settling back in his seat. "Must have been nice to have a bed to sleep in instead of camping with the gypsies."
Napoleon tsked. "It's not my fault that you know a lot about gypsies. Besides, someone needed to keep Tanya safe."
Illya just shook his head. "Who kept her safe from you?"
His partner just laughed. "She's fine, Illya."
The Russian looked at him sharply. "Tanya?"
"Pam. She's just fine and waiting patiently for you."
Illya frowned. "I didn't..."
"You didn't have to. She's a good one, Illya. Don't let her get away. Of course, you'll have to fight with Waverly over permission to marry, but I think he'll give the okay. I'll put in a good word for you."
Illya sat up, frowning. "I didn't say anything about marriage. For that matter, I didn't say anything about Pam."
"You don't have to, tovarish." Napoleon leaned back in his seat. "Yep, she's a keeper, pal." He closed his eyes.
Illya gazed at him for a moment before settling back in his own seat. Napoleon was right about one thing. He had been thinking about Pam. God, how he loved her. He closed his eyes thinking about his upcoming reunion with her. He smiled.
Out of the corner of his eye, Napoleon caught the smile and he smiled too.
XXXXX
Their homecoming was everything he dreamed of.
She was sitting on the stoop waiting for him when he got out of the taxi. She stood up and trotted down the steps and fell into his arms. They kissed deeply and Illya suddenly felt everything was okay.
She pulled back a little and grinned. "Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"
Illya laughed. "Both."
"Thought so." She grabbed his hand and led him up the steps. Illya noticed the young man standing next to the door, frowning at them. He recognized him as his neighbor, Bill Anderson, who lived in the apartment down the hall. He'd had a couple of run-ins with Anderson and there was no love lost between them. He returned the frown and allowed Pam to pull him inside.
It only took moments once inside his apartment, with Pam in his arms to forget about everything. The mission, his neighbor, everything. Except the woman in his arms.
Life returned to normal. Well, as normal as could be expected for Illya Kuryakin, spy extraordinaire and man in love. It would be several days before his neighbor crossed his mind again.
XXXXX
Illya shut the window in frustration, shaking his head. Pam walked into the living room, carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses. She set the glasses on the table and started to pour the wine.
"What's wrong comrade spy?"
Illya shook his head. "It's nothing. It's just that it's been three days since that cat took off."
Pam handed him a glass and kissed him on the cheek. "Found himself a girl, no doubt."
He grinned and took a sip. "Then I know from experience that he's a happy cat," He kissed her quickly and swung her into an awkward dance, both laughing happily, their wine glasses held high to keep from spilling.
"Oh, comrade, you sweep me off my feet!" Pam giggled.
"And you, my angel, haven't let my feet touch the ground since I met you."
She pulled him to a halt and smiled at him. "Why, Illya! That was so poetic!"
"It is nothing but the simple truth." He gazed into her eyes, sobering. "Pam, I'm not much of a catch. I have no family, not much money, really. I don't even have a country. I'm still a Soviet citizen. I've been thinking that maybe I should apply for citizenship here in the US, but I don't even know if it is possible. My job is dangerous, I'm gone for days at a time."
She giggled. "You make yourself sound like such a mess!"
He put his finger to her lips to still her. "Shhh. I'm trying to sell myself to you." She giggled again and he smiled. "Pam, I love you. And I'd like you to be my wife."
Pam gaped, her eyes wide in surprise. He looked at her, his heart thundering in his chest. What if...
"Please say something, Pam, before I have a heart attack."
The black woman just gazed back at him. She stepped back. "I'm no prize either, Illya. I come with baggage."
He frowned. "I don't care! I love you!"
"I know. And I love you. But my baggage cannot be overcome. I can't change the color of my skin and all that goes with that. Hate is real, Illya. We can't pretend it's not. And if we marry, that hate will be for you, too."
Illya sighed. "You don't think I know that? I said it before and I'll say it again. If you hurt, I hurt. It doesn't in any way affect how I feel about you."
"You have to be sure!" She cried.
Calmly. "I'm sure."
A stray tear slipped down her cheek and Illya's heart lurched. He reached out and wiped at the tear with his thumb. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
She scrubbed at her eyes, letting out a strangled laugh. "Can't you recognize tears of joy?"
"Evidently not."
"Yes, I'll marry you. Hopefully two messes cancel each other out."
"It doesn't matter as long as you're my mess." He pulled her to him and held her as tightly as he could as if he could protect them both from their own folly. Well, folly it may be but they would face it together.
XXXXX
He told Napoleon about his engagement the next day and his friend was happy for him. They discussed the possibility of US citizenship and Solo promised to bring it up to Mr. Waverly. They were gearing up for another assignment and Illya wanted things in the works before they left. They would be jetting off to Nepal this time and there was no end date for the mission. They would be leaving within the week.
Illya had just finished putting some finishing touches on a disguise when he looked at his watch. Almost quitting time. He noted wryly that before Pam, his hours of work had been irrelevant. He worked until he was finished. Now he looked forward to spending time with Pam. They were going out to dinner tonight to celebrate and Illya had asked Napoleon to join them. They were so happy they wanted someone to share their joy. Napoleon had been touched by the invitation and agreed on condition that dinner was his treat. So Illya went in search of his friend, finding him in their office.
Napoleon was going over some reports and was looking decidedly bored. His feet were propped up on the desk and his chair was tipped back at a precarious angle. Illya brushed his feet off the desk as he passed causing Napoleon to drop the report he was reading. He looked at Illya in annoyance.
"Come on," Illya announced. "It's time to go."
Napoleon brightened. "Ah, dinner with the happy couple." He straightened his desk and locked the reports in the drawer. Standing up, he slipped his jacket off the back of the chair and put it on. It took only minutes for the two of them to head out.
"We'll take my car," Napoleon said as he fished his keys out of his pocket.
Illya shrugged. "Parking is always very difficult in my neighborhood. It would be easier to take a cab."
"But not nearly as fun." Napoleon winked.
It was an old argument: the European preference for the practicality of public transportation vs. the American love of the automobile. They reached Solo's car and jumped into the convertible. Illya had to admit, it was definitely more fun Napoleon's way.
They reached Ilya's apartment about a half hour earlier than expected. Surprisingly, the traffic had cooperated and they made good time. Unheard of in New York City. They even found a relatively convenient parking space and walked less than a block to the building.
"I'd like to get her a decent diamond," Illya was saying. "But I know nothing about jewelry."
"And I do?" Napoleon responded.
Illya looked pointedly at the gold cufflinks and the sapphire ring on his finger. "You know more than I."
Napoleon snorted in derision. "Your cat knows more than you."
Illya frowned. "I sincerely doubt that and how did you find out about my cat?"
"You mean Napoleon?" He laughed at Illya's guilty look. "Pam told me. She thought it was funny."
"I'm going to have to talk to her about secrets."
They entered the building and headed for the stairs.
"Dammit, Illya," Napoleon groused as they rounded the third landing. "Why can't you live in a building with an elevator like other people."
"Keeps me fit."
"Nah, you're just too damn cheap to spend a little extra money for a better apartment building."
"Well, yeah."
They reached the 4th floor and Illya swung the door open. The first thing he saw was his neighbor coming down the hall toward them. The moment Anderson saw the two men, he froze in fear and ran back to his apartment.
"What?" Illya mumbled in irritated puzzlement, but suddenly he jerked, spun around and raced toward Pam's door, irrational fear making it hard for him to breathe. As he neared he could feel his chest contract in horror.
There, on the door, nailed firmly in place, was the bloody corpse of Napoleon the cat.
Illya hesitated only a moment before trying the knob. It was locked. He pounded on the door.
Napoleon nudged him aside and pulled his gun. He placed two bullets into the lock and followed it with a kick. The door splintered around the lock and burst inward. Illya was through before Napoleon could stop him.
"Pam!" He shouted. The living room was empty. "Pam! Where are you?" He pulled his own weapon and headed for the bedroom. Napoleon took the opposite direction, looking into the kitchen. It was clear. He started to check the bath, when he paused, listening. Illya had gasped.
Napoleon ran down the hall to the bedroom, knowing in his heart that it was bad. Very bad. When he entered the room, he could smell the blood before he saw it. Pam was on the bed. Covered in blood. And very dead.
Illya stood over the bed staring in mute horror. Napoleon reached down for a pulse and found none. He shook his head at Illya mutely. The Russian seemed frozen, staring at the wreckage on the bed. Napoleon tried to nudge him aside but Illya would not move.
"Pam."
As if the spoken word woke him up, Illya turned around and headed for the door. "Anderson!" He snarled. "He did this!"
Napoleon chased him out of the apartment and down the hall. "Illya, wait!" But there was no stopping his partner.
Illya tried Anderson's door but it was locked. As Napoleon had done to Pam's door, Illya repeated the drill: Shoot the lock, kick in the door. The apartment was empty.
"He can't have got far!"
"Illya, wait! I'll call 'll find him."
Illya glared at his partner. "No. I'll get him!" And the Russian was out the door.
"Shit," Napoleon spat and chased after him, down four flights of stairs and out the front door. Illya was already there, his gun drawn, looking around frantically for Anderson. In a sudden and seemingly arbitrary decision, he started running for the alley.
"Dammit, Illya," Solo said as he followed. The alley behind the apartment building was like every other. Full of trash cans, overflowing with trash. Illya was twirling in circles, his gun pointed in front of him, searching for any sign of his quarry.
"Illya, he's not here," Napoleon began but suddenly one of the cans tipped and Anderson appeared from behind it. He saw the two men and began running. Both UNCLE agents were behind him instantly.
The chase didn't last long. Anderson make the mistake of dodging into an abandoned building, trapping himself neatly. The agents followed him in, finally cornering him in a dusty room on the second floor.
Anderson was plainly out of shape. He lay panting on the floor, staring up in them in terror.
Illya carefully walked forward, his gun aimed straight at the prone man. "You killed her." He growled through gritted teeth.
"No! No! I didn't! I'm innocent."
Illya stopped in front of him. "You are an animal," he said quietly. "You need to be put down like one." He leaned forward, aiming his gun, ready to pull the trigger.
Napoleon walked up to his side quietly, his own gun drawn. "You've got him, Illya. You don't need to kill him."
"He killed her."
"Probably, but you can't do this."
"Why?" It was a scream of agony. "Why can't I kill him?"
Napoleon realized that his partner was over the edge. He forced himself to calm down and spoke quietly. "Illya, I'll call UNCLE. They'll handle this."
"He killed her!"
Anderson was weeping. "No, I didn't. I didn't! I found her like that. I got scared. I didn't..."
Illya cocked his weapon and Anderson quieted with a strangled gasp.
"Illya," Napoleon said calmly. "This isn't a James Bond movie. We don't have a license to kill. He needs to be arrested and brought to trial."
"A trial is too good for him."
"I agree, but that is what we stand for. Law."
"Not this time, Napoleon. Not this time."
Napoleon drew a deep breath. He made his decision and knew he would go through with whatever Illya needed.
"Alright," he said quietly. He pointed his own gun at Anderson. "But together. That way there will always be doubt."
Illya blinked. "What?" He looked up at Napoleon. "You can't," he whispered.
"Why not? You can."
Napoleon could see the rationality return to Illya's eyes.
"I'm with you partner. All the way. Whatever you want." Napoleon said quietly.
Illya lowered his gun and took a step back. He looked up at Napoleon in shock. "I...I was going to execute him."
Napoleon nodded. "I know." He too relaxed. He reached into his jacket for his communicator. "I'll call it in."
It was in that moment that Anderson reached into his pocket and withdrew his own gun, raising it at Illya with a snarl. "You son of a bitch n***** lover!"
There was a single sound but two shots. Both Illya and Napoleon had fired together, point blank, at the prone man. He had never gotten the chance to fire his gun.
XXXXX
The funeral was held in Alabama. Both Illya and Napoleon attended. Mr. Waverly reassigned their case to another pair of agents, allowing the two men to deal with Pam Abernathy's death. Napoleon hadn't told him about Illya's relationship with her and he knew Illya hadn't either. But he wasn't surprised. The old man seemed to know everything involving his agents. He even suspected that Waverly knew about the near execution in the warehouse. But nothing was said. William Anderson was dead, the villainous perpetrator of a vile hate crime.
Illya walked through the funeral in a daze. He never told the family about their engagement. It was the only thing he had left of her and he didn't want to share it. The family just assumed they were two nice white guys from New York who had come down to pay their respects. Illya tried not to cry when they lowered her into the ground, but a single tear slipped down his cheek. Napoleon pretended he didn't see it.
When they got back to New York, Illya moved out of his apartment. Napoleon helped him find a new place and move into it. He made sure that the new building had an elevator.
Illya himself was withdrawn and taciturn. In other words he seemed back to his old self. Napoleon kept him occupied off duty and Waverly kept him busy on assignments. But eventually they needed to talk and Napoleon knew the Russian wouldn't want to. Therefore he was surprised when his friend called about two months later and invited him to go with him to Central Park.
It was a cold and windy fall day. Illya wore a pair of jeans, a black turtleneck and carried a backpack over one shoulder. On his other side he carried a shovel, which he rested on his shoulder like a rifle. Napoleon was curious but didn't say anything, only followed his friend through the park.
They found an isolated spot and Illya put the backpack down and started digging. The hole he dug wasn't big but it was deep. He finally put the shovel down and stood staring down at the hole.
"You gonna tell me what's going on?" Napoleon finally said.
"Yeah. I'm burying the cat."
Napoleon thought he was beyond surprise but he was wrong. "The cat?"
"Yeah. I kept it in the freezer."
Shocked, Napoleon's eyes widened. "You mean, it was in the freezer when I moved the refrigerator?"
"Yes."
Napoleon attempted to come to terms with that revelation. He watched as Illya kneeled down and grabbed the backpack. He removed the Saran wrapped corpse and placed it in the hole.
Napoleon watched mutely as Illya's shoulders began to shake. Then he heard the strangled and ragged sounds of his friend's sobs. Napoleon knelt down next to him and placed his hand comfortingly on his shoulder.
"It's a cat!" Illya spat. "It's just a damned cat!"
Napoleon pulled his friend into his arms and let him cry. "No, it's not," he said quietly.
When the sobs abated, Napoleon stood up and grabbed the shovel and filled in the makeshift grave.
"Come on, friend." He offered his hand to help Illya up. "Let's go get drunk."