I was floating around youtube watching MFU related vids, when I came across a song called 'Illya Kuryakin Looked at me' by the Cleaners from Venus. From that, this story was born.
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Whenever Napoleon Solo was in town and not on a mission, the first conversation of the day in the secretarial pool was, 'who went out with him last night?' Every woman in the pool loved to be taken out by the suave, sophisticated agent, but each one of them knew it meant nothing. They were under no delusion that they were simply a distraction from his daily stresses. To have a date with Napoleon Solo though, meant an evening of dancing and fine dining. Occasionally there would be more, but only if the lady in question was interested.
On one particular morning, it was Deidre's turn to brag about the previous evening. The women hung on her every word, remembering the times they had been in her shoes. Her tale was interrupted by a fellow secretary as Julia burst into the room fanning herself with her hand and breathing heavily.
"Julia, what's wrong?" One of the other women asked.
"Illya Kuryakin," she panted. "Illya Kuryakin looked at me."
There was a collective sigh amongst the assembled women. While they admired the self-assured and outgoing Solo, every one of them would happily push him aside for a date with his partner. Kuryakin's beautiful icy blue eyes perfectly complemented his shy smile and unassuming manner. Not one of the women had been lucky enough to have a date with the Russian.
"What do you mean exactly?" asked Deidre. "He probably looks at dozens of people throughout the day."
"I had to take some files to him," Julia told them, with a dreamy look on her face. "He accidently knocked them from my hand and, as he apologised, it was as though he was staring into my soul."
"You're so lucky."
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Illya made a show of looking at his watch when Napoleon finally entered their shared office.
"I'm only twenty minutes late."
"Mr Waverly wants to see us in an hour," the Russian informed him. "Napoleon, can I ask you a favour?"
"Anytime Tovarisch."
"Would you tell the secretaries that I am not interested in any of them? Also, ask them to refrain from all the schoolgirl blushing and giggling in my presence."
"My, aren't we tetchy this morning."
Illya gave his partner a withering look.
"Just because any of them could have you any time you want, it doesn't mean that I am available."
Napoleon studied the Russian intently. It wasn't as though Illya hadn't had any female dalliances. Solo could name several women who'd had the pleasure of his company.
"Why aren't you available?" The senior agent queried.
"Pardon?"
"Seriously Illya," Napoleon continued. "What's wrong with a little no strings attached fun?"
"Absolutely nothing," Illya replied tersely. "However, unlike some people, I am not a walking libido."
"Don't you think you're being a little harsh, ruling out every secretary?
"Will you talk to them or not?"
Napoleon gave the smug grin which always made Illya want to punch him.
"No." Solo told him simply.
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A week later the secretaries watched, like a pack of meerkats, as Illya limped past their window. They all exuded an air of sympathy for the poor, injured agent. His right arm was in a sling and, judging by the limp, he'd obviously hurt his leg too. He and napoleon had returned from a mission which, despite being successful, had left them both worse for wear. Solo had fared slightly better than his friend but had been confined to medical until the doctor was satisfied he was clear of his concussion.
The Russian was on his way to visit his partner, thankful it wasn't the other way around for a change. He found Napoleon sitting up in bed, being fed jello by a very happy nurse.
"I hadn't realised concussion rendered you incapable of operating a spoon."
"Good afternoon to you too Illya," Napoleon greeted him, as he politely shooed the nurse away. "How come your injuries are worse than mine, but I'm here and you're not?"
"Because you like to mollycoddled and fawned over."
Illya's words were accusatory, but the tome was warm. Their survival had been another close call so Napoleon was entitled to a little pampering.
"Nothing to do with you kicking up a fuss and getting yourself kicked out then?" The American chuckled.
"I got a message you wanted to see me." Illya stated, smoothly sidestepping the truth of Napoleon's words.
Solo's expression became quite complex. It was at once, amused, apologetic and apprehensive.
"I'm not going to like this, am I?"
"I had a date with Julia tonight but, as you can see, I am unable to make it."
"Then reschedule."
"I can't," Napoleon told him, with obvious regret in his voice. "I have tickets for a group who are only playing tonight. Julia wanted to see them specifically."
"Ask Mark," Illya suggested, before turning to leave.
"Please Illya," the senior agent begged. "Mark is in Brazil. I thought you might enjoy it. The group is apparently some up and coming jazz combo. Come on Partner Mine. You love jazz."
It was true, and Illya couldn't deny it. Jazz was one of the few decadences he indulged in and an evening of it might be just the tonic following their recent mission. If the evening was spent in the company of a beautiful woman, who also enjoyed the music, then so much the better.
"Okay Napoleon," he agreed. "I shall go and ask the young lady if she minds a change of dinner partner."
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All heads looked up as the blond agent entered the secretarial pool, and several hearts sank as he made his way to Julia's desk.
"Have you got a moment Miss Armstrong?"
"Certainly Mr Kuryakin," she answered breathlessly. "And please, call me Julia."
He offered her one of his shy smiles, which set every female heart in the room fluttering.
"As you know, Julia," Illya said, too aware of all the eyes watching him. "Mr Solo is unavailable for your date tonight. He has asked me if I could escort you in his stead. Would that be agreeable to you?"
It took every ounce of Julia's willpower not to faint at the Russian's feet.
"That would be delightful Mr Kuryakin."
Again he smiled, but wider this time. A full smile was a rare thing from Illya and Julia felt blessed to be the recipient of it.
"I shall pick you up at 7, and please, call me Illya."
The women waited until Illya had gone before squealing loudly and hugging Julia.
"Oh My God!" Deidre exclaimed. "Illya Kuryakin asked you out!"
The end.