Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin stood on the roof of U.N.C.L.E. New York, and watched as the New Year's fireworks burst over the city. They had not long since returned from assignment, and both were in need of minor medical attention and hot showers. As usual, Illya had come out of it worse than his partner. From what Solo could ascertain, the Russian only had a few bruises and a possible broken left arm. His left shoulder, which had been dislocated, had been put back into place by Napoleon.
"Well, Pal, we survived another year."
"Only just," Illya replied, rubbing his still aching shoulder. "I don't make New Year's resolutions, but I think I will resolve to try and get injured less."
"You could join that one with not goading your captors so much that the beat the living daylights out of you," Solo added. "I swear there's a touch of the masochist in you."
The Russian merely shrugged and offered an enigmatic smile.
"What about you, my friend?" he asked, diverting the course of the conversation. "Do you have any resolutions for 1964?"
"No, I don't make promises that I may not be able to keep."
Illya snorted. "Really?!" he exclaimed. "Tell that to Monica, or Jenny, or Felicity, or Jackie, or Denise, or . . ."
"Okay, you've made your point." Solo stopped him, huffily. "That's not what I meant. I never resolve to survive, because that isn't in my hands."
"I understand. Though maybe you should try and cut back on the promises to all the women in your life"
It was barely perceptible, but Napoleon couldn't fail to notice the slight weary sadness in Illya's speech. It was the weariness born of physical duress, but that of a man with regrets.
"What's wrong, Tovarisch?"
Illya looked his friend in the eye, and Napoleon could clearly see there was a story to be told.
"I'll tell you after we've been to medical," the Russian told him, before heading down from the roof.
Napoleon paused and watched him go. He had a feeling he would soon be learning something big.
…
It hadn't taken long for their various cuts and scrapes to be cleaned up, and for a cast to be fitted on Illya's arm. The two men settled themselves, with a drink each, onto the sofa in Waverly's office; the Old Man having gone home for the night.
"Well," Napoleon finally prompted. "What is it that you have to tell me? I assume it's got something to do with making promises to women."
"Five years ago," Illya began. "I was living in London and had been dating a woman called Pamela for several months. She had long, chocolate brown hair and deep hazel eyes. He skin was silky smooth and, to me, she was perfection. I would have done anything she asked of me. About four weeks before Christmas we decided to get married. It was completely on the spur of the moment, but we were in love. When you're in love you feel like anything is possible."
He paused as though trying to rein in his emotions, and Napoleon realised that Illya was fiddling with the thin gold band on his left hand.
"Of course, we couldn't marry right away because of all the legal things that needed organising, so we decided that New Year's Day would be the time to do it. We married in church, at her request, but we wrote our own vows. I promised to always love her, to make her happy, but above all, give her security. That last one was broken before the day was over."
Much to Napoleon's shock, tears were flowing freely down Illya's cheeks. At the back of his mind, he wondered why he'd never read any of this in the Russian's personnel file.
"What happened," he asked gently, handing his friend a handkerchief.
"I was so blinded by love, I had forgotten to take my government into account," Illya continued. "It seemed they were unhappy with my marrying without their permission. There were many things they could have done to punish me, such as drag me home, re-educate me, or execute me. Instead, they did the one thing which would hurt me above all else. They killed her, and made me watch. My promises to her had been worthless."
For Napoleon, Illya's terrible tale explained quite a lot. It was obviously the reason he was reluctant to date, and it would also suggest why this Soviet citizen wasn't quite as loyal as he ought to be.
"Tovarisch, I don't know what to say other than I am so very sorry. How did you cope?"
"By keeping the only promise I could," Illya told him sadly. "I continued to love her."
"I truly am sorry, Illya," Napoleon repeated. "Maybe one day, when you're ready, you can tell me all about this Pamela of yours. She sounds wonderful."
"She was," Illya confirmed. "I would like to tell you about her, but not today. One day my friend, I will. That is one promise I'm happy to make."
"I was going to wish you a Happy New Year," Napoleon said, with a frown. "But I'm not sure it's right now that I know it's also your wedding anniversary."
"Do not worry, my friend," Illya replied. "That wish is the best one I could ask for."
"In that case, Happy New Year, Illya."
"And Happy New Year to you also."