The Blind Man's Bluff Affair
ACT 1 Always Darkest Before the Dawn
Solo smashed the door, splinters flying.
"Rise and shine, Blondie," he called. "We've got ten minutes to get clear before the place blows."
"Ten whole minutes-my, aren't we slowing down in our old age," he taunted as Solo sliced away at the bonds that held him stretched across the table. "Turn on the lights, or at least give me a flashlight so I can stumble my way out of here."
Solo squinted against the blazing ceiling lights.
"This isn't bright enough for you?"
"Napoleon, it's been pitch black in here for three days. My eyes need to adjust..." he could not see the look of concern cross his partner's face.
"Uh...let's just save some time. I'll haul you out of here and we'll grab something to eat at a brightly-lit diner I spotted down the road."
Over the Russian's protest, Solo heaved him over his shoulder in the traditional fireman's carry, set him safely into the passenger seat, and sped away before the smoke cleared
"So, you cleverly waited for cover of darkness to cloak your rescue attempt, eh? What makes you think your little diner will be open all hours of the night? I'm really hungry. THRUSH doesn't bother to feed its nestlings, you know."
" Illya, what time do you think it is?" Solo asked nonchalantly.
"Well, since I've been deprived of my watch and wallet, I've had to keep track in my head. Judging by the darkness, I'd guess about 4 am-you know, darkest before the dawn and all that..." His partner's silence was unsettling. "Uh...you did remember to remove my blindfold, didn't you?" he chuckled uneasily.
# # # # #
Kuryakin had been whisked away into UNCLE's medical section, quiet and cooperative. That worried Solo more than his friend's apparent physical damage. Illya always grumbled and griped when he dealt with the medical professionals. His silent compliance now as he was handled and cosseted had been spooky.
Napoleon sideswiped his partner's physician. "So, Doc, what's the problem? I'll need details to complete my mission report. Been a long time since I've had to file one of these. It's due in a week, I don't suppose Kuryakin..." the CEA hinted hopefully.
"We've done a number of tests, Mr. Solo. I have reports to file too, you know." The doctor was weary, worried, and therefore, snippy.
"I'm sorry, Doctor. He's my partner." To Napoleon, that explained it all.
"I'm sorry too, Mr. Solo. He's my patient. Let's start over. We have eliminated the possibility of intentional THRUSH-inflicted damage: there's no drugs, no torture, no devices, no psychological intervention. There's no immediate physical cause: no injury, no infection, no fever. "
"So you're certain what it's not. Can you tell me what it is and what you plan to do about it?"
"Not without more tests. " The medical reasoning seemed frustratingly circular.
Solo tried to read between the lines. "I know speculation is not good science," he quoted his partner, " but you are looking for something..."
"Perhaps a tumor, an undetected disease, a rare genetic defect."
Scary stuff. "I'll do anything I can..."
"Pray for a tumor," the doctor suggested. "At least that's operable."
Solo's visits to Illya's cubicle were particularly uncomfortable. As long as he could crawl to the nearest exit, the headstrong Russian would insist on going home to recover, apart from strangers's eyes.
Until this time.
Illya was morose and indifferent to his surroundings. His blank blue stare was unnerving.
Solo tried to be sensitive, but he was unsure how to cope with a disability not incurred in the line of duty.
This impairment was finally diagnosed as a genetic defect, planted years ago at conception, building pressure over the years and finally snapping the optic nerve.
ACT 2 Two Blind Mice
Napoleon was waiting in his friend's flat to welcome Illya home, and to introduce him to his newly-engaged coach. "Illya, this is Meredith Crosby."
Miss Crosby sought to lay her hand on Illya's. "I believe your doctor explained-"
"Yes. You are my seeing-eye dog, " he greeted her coldly.
"You have the roles reversed, Mr. Kuryakin. You are the dog. I am the trainer here. And now that we have our relationship established, perhaps we could pretend to be polite."
Solo was heartened by her authoritative manner. No one had been able to penetrate his partner's pessimism lately.
She shook his hand firmly. "I am here for your Intensive Independence Adaptive Training. Within 90 days, you will function on a new level, achieve independent living, and begin occupational therapy. Have you any questions?"
"Have I any choice?" he asked grimly.
"Certainly. You can sit in the dark and rot. Or you can help me teach you how to live. Your insurance pays me either way. Since you are not up to playing host today, I will fetch the coffee. But tomorrow, it will be your turn, " she warned, brooking no contradiction.
She swept into the kitchenette and clattered about.
"Why do I feel like I'm back at Survival School without a life raft?" Illya grumbled.
Solo was his usual charming self during the coffee, but left soon after. As the new coach accompanied him to the door, their heads were bent together, talking low and punctuated with throaty laughter. Illya could not determine if they were flirting or discussing him.
He could feel her footsteps walk toward him, and heard her collect the coffee tray.
"Never fear," he made a grouchy effort to console her, " Napoleon will be popping by frequently, so your life here will not be totally without charm."
"Actually, I asked him to give us as much time alone as possible, so you can concentrate on your studies."
"A woman who asks Napoleon to stay away." The thought amused him. "You are unique, Miss Crosby. Women usually find my partner irresistible."
"Really? I hadn't noticed."
"What are you, blind?" he said with chilling sarcasm.
"Yes, I am." She allowed the silence to sink in. "Did you expect some 20/20 to walk in here and teach you how to live as a double-0 nothing?"
The Russian stammered an apology. "I am sorry. I didn't think that-"
"So you have some sensitivity after all. There may be hope for you yet, Mr. Kuryakin," she said softly.
"How-?"
"Fell off a horse when I was 14. It was a great year. I was blind, my boyfriend dumped me, and I flunked algebra. Obviously I wanted an early exit. But blind suicide is such a messy business. So I threw myself into adaptive skills class, so I'd know how to do it right the next time. I guess I must've missed the lesson in suicide methods . And by then, I'd developed my own ways of coping. The center gave me a little boy to work with, to teach him how to live in the dark. It was the most fulfilling experience in my life, and I've never looked back. "
She shook off her reverie. "So you see, Mr. Kuryakin, I understand your moods, even share them. I've lived anger and depression and fear. I can help you gain control of your life again. Trust me."
ACT 3 Breakfast in Bed
Because of Kuryakin's work, his senses and memory were already more highly developed than other clients Meredith had taught. She tapped into his native love of learning, and motivated him to rethink his daily routine. By the end of the week, she had him caring for himself, dressing, grooming and following the trail through his apartment.
By the second week they strolled to the small neighborhood grocery and attempted shopping. Illya decided to preside over a tea party to celebrate. "Two weeks ago, I could not imagine myself ever celebrating anything, ever again. "
"Shall I pour?" Meredith offered.
"Allow me." With confidence, he fingered for the pot and filled two cups. "Practice makes perfect."
She passed the plate. "Cookies at three o'clock."
"Delighted."
They each took a bite and coughed them up, grimacing.
"Oh, dear.." she choked.
"Damn Bacarelli. He must have reset the shelves again, and moved the dog biscuits. My apologies. Just another reason I do not cook."
"Yes. I've been warned off your soufflés. "
# # # # #
His tossing and turning summoned her from across the hall. "It's so dark," he anguished. "I keep trying to open my eyes, and it's still dark!"
She clambered onto the bed and reached out toward his shuddering, repeating his name gently. "Sshh...lie down now..." He obeyed, feeling secure against her.
She spooned against his back, and curled a protective arm around his middle. "We're going to have a lovely sleep, and there's blackberry tarts when you wake up," she whispered into his ear.
She stroked his silky hair until his breathing deepened. Her warm lips lingered on the nape of his neck.
# # # # #
The rattling tray woke her.
"You were dreaming of blackberry?" He smiled even though he knew she would never see it. "I promise: my breakfasts-in-bed are better than my tea parties."
"Practice makes perfect?" she teased, then instantly regretted denting his dignity.
Illya was close enough to feel the heat radiating from her blush. "I grew up in an overcrowded orphanage. Bedtime meant proximity, not intimacy." For Napoleon, sleeping alone was deprivation. For Illya, it was a luxury he rarely cared to sacrifice.
"Sorry," she stretched and sat up. "I meant to be gone before-"
"Before I noticed you?" He settled cautiously next to her and reached for the tray. "See, your training is a triumph. I can serve without scalding either of us."
"Do you remember anything about your family?" she ventured gently. "I don't mean to pry, but the genetic connection..."
"I remember my mother urging me to read, very young. When I learned, she was always calling me to come and read to her, anything, everything. I thought she was proud of me. Perhaps she just couldn't see any longer. "
Meredith made a sharp left turn in the conversation without signaling. "Here we are living together, and I don't even know what you look like."
"Does it matter?" he shrugged.
"Yes and no. Describe yourself." She challenged Illya in a lesson of precise language.
"Oh...medium height, I guess. Slender. Blond. Blue eyes. They don't function any more but I keep them because people find them decorative."
"Congratulations, your first blind joke. However, you failed to mention 'really, really cute.' "
"I am-er-I did?"
"Fortunately, I have trustworthy witnesses. I had a friend stake out Bacarelli's the other day, and I've got a full report," Meredith's tone was exceedingly pleased with herself.
"Have you ever considered a career in espionage?" he chuckled.
"Hey, the eyes don't work- the rest of the parts are fully engaged."
He felt her ease up from the bed. "Just a minute...I don't know what you look like."
"Does it matter?"
"Yes and no," he echoed.
"Then let your pal Solo clue you in. If necessary. We're invited out for supper Thursday. Be on your best behavior," she warned.
"Tired of my cooking already?"
"You mean dialing up for Chinese or Hungarian every night? Lord, yes!"
"You could cook for a change, Roomie..." the blond suggested.
"If that's a dare...it's one challenge I am not accepting."
ACT 4 Slow Dance, Sad Song, Sweet Dreams
Solo had made reservations at a quiet candlelit bistro.
"Order the most expensive thing you can imagine," Illya advised her. "Napoleon's paying."
"That's right," Solo affirmed. "After all, if you waited for Illya to bring you here, you'd still be on the phone ordering Bulgarian."
"Hungarian," Kuryakin corrected.
"Whatever."
After a succulent meal and a fine example of blind table manners, Solo slid back his chair. "Miss Crosby, may I have this dance?"
Illya was so in tune with his coach by now, he could feel the stress of her cells tighten. "I don't know if I've had enough wine to risk it."
"Please..." Solo took Meredith's hand and led her smoothly onto the floor for a samba. By the time the combo started their next set, Meredith knew she was in different arms.
"Had to rescue your partner already, eh?" she joshed..
"He's the work partner; you're the dance partner. It was one of those hard-choice scenarios where I could only save one of you."
They easily adjusted to each other's feet. Illya held her closer and she rested her cheek against his.
"You're humming," he murmured in the vicinity of her ear.
" I confess. I sing and sway to the sultry, bluesy numbers. Do you—"
"Not even at gunpoint. And that has been tried." He could feel the vibrations along her throat. "You're still humming," he observed.
"Sorry. It's this song." She answered shortly, hoping he would let the matter drop.
" Will you sing it for me sometime?" His whisper was so gentle, so determined.
"And have you wish you were deaf, too?" Meredith tried to stall him with a joke that fell and flattened beneath their feet.
He shook his head. "Now. This song."
"I don't know if I've had enough wine to risk it..." But she took a deep breath and sang the sweet, wistful poetry of the Bergman-Legrand standard, accompanied by the mellow sax.
"What are you doing for the rest of your life,
North and south and east and west of your life?
I have only one request of my life,
That you spend it all with me….
I want to see your face in every kind of light,
In fields of dawn and forests of the night,
And when you stand before the candles of a cake,
Let me be the one to hear the silent wish you make..."
Meredith's weight shifted suddenly and Illya tightened his grip to steady her
."I...I'm dizzy….I need to sit down."
"Too much wine?"
"Too much risk."
Napoleon had approached them and tapped Illya's shoulder. "C'mon Kids, break it up. Benito and the guys want to close up and go home."
Solo hailed a cab and smiled, watching the two sleepy heads nodding against each other in the back seat.
# # # # #
"That was a lovely ending, " Meredith yawned, leaning against his door.
"Ending?"
"Well, you've graduated from Adaptive Independence training. You'll be moving on to OT."
He took her hand humbly. "I don't know I could have survived these past months without you."
"Glad to help," she replied warmly, and yawned again.
"I find it difficult to imagine life without you." His declaration suspended between them in silence.
"Then I've failed," she said firmly. "It's my work to lead you to independence."
"I still don't know what you look like."
"I hardly know what I look like. It's been nearly twenty years since the mirror looked back. And no one's asked-"
"Meredith..."
She closed her eyelids and held her breath because she could sense him reaching for her. His fingertips poured over her face, gliding gently. He drew closer, his lips tugging softly at her earlobes, tongue tracing the swirls and sweet tunnels of her ear. Then the Eskimo kisses, their faces barely brushing, tender, joyful, laughing sounds rising from them both. He lifted her hands to his face, and felt her trembling to join his Braille expedition.
Epilogue
Solo smashed through the door, splinters flying. "Rise and shine, Blondie, " he called. "We've got ten minutes to get clear before this place blows."
"Napoleon?" The Russian swam to a conscious level. He tried to sit up and remembered the restraints that stretched him across the table. He couldn't rub his eyes, so he blinked several times, and his vision began to clear. "Napoleon, I've never been so happy to see you," he said sincerely.
"Ha. You were not exactly in mortal danger here, snoring away. You could probably blow this place down by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin if I let you nap another half-hour."
"I probably would not have slept so soundly if I'd had a decent meal in the past three days."
"I passed a diner on the way out here..." Solo sliced away at his partner's bonds.
"I'd flip you for the check but I seem to have been deprived of my wallet and watch..."
"I guess that's why it's called 'convenience' food. You conveniently get out of paying…"
They hopped into the car and sped away before the smoke cleared.
finis