Category: Slash—be forewarned
Pairing: Illya/OC
Disclaimer: Antonio, Lorenzo, Grant, and probably anyone you've never heard of belong to us. Unfortunately, Burke does, as well. Illya, Napoleon, UNCLE and the other UNCLE characters belong to Norman Feldman.
That's not the beginning of the end Love - devotion Don't be afraid to be weak If you want, then start to laugh Don't care what people say That's not the beginning of the end Don't care what people say
That's the return to yourself
The return to innocence.
Love - devotion
Feeling - emotion
Feeling - emotion
Don't be too proud to be strong
Just look into your heart my friend
That will be the return to yourself
The return to innocence
If you must, then start to cry
Be yourself don't hide
Just believe in destiny
Just follow your own way
Don't give up and use the chance
To return to innocence
Thats the return to yourself
The return to innocence
Follow just your own way
Follow just your own way
Don't give up, don't give up
To return, to return to innocence.
If you want then laugh
If you must then cry
Be yourself don't hide
Just believe in destiny
-Return to Innocence by Enigma
October 1955
Naples, ItalyThe dingy little hotel room was lit by a single bulb overhead and a candle on the small table around which the four men from Russia gathered to talk. Three in their late twenties, not nearly so young and green in the field as the fourth. Yet for all his youth, Illya Nicovetch Kuryakin was probably smarter than the others combined, a fact that irritated the older agents.
"You're going about it the wrong way," Illya interjected into the others' conversation. "They want a man on the inside. That is why I was sent on this assignment."
"Shut up," Grigori snapped at the young upstart. "We don't have time to try and slip anyone in as a nuclear physicist looking to buy the technology he has to sell, let alone one who looks like a boy. We need another way."
Yuri rubbed the bristly growth of beard on his chin. "The only thing men here want fast is food and sex."
Sasha laughed. "You're wrong about that. Slow. Long and slow. They think of food and sex as if it were one thing. Maybe we could send him in as a cook."
Grigori rolled his eyes and then focused back on his group. "Let's get back to being realistic. Those stolen missiles are here in Naples. We know the base is somewhere on the coast near here. We have to get a man in and sabotage the guidance system before our enemies get hold of the technology. A cook will not get us where we want to go."
Yuri sat back and a smile slowly spread over his face. The others began focusing on him, sensing he had just come up with something.
"Spill it, Yuri." Grigori would entertain just about anything at this point.
"You want a fast way in. I think I may have one." He unfolded his arms and leaned forward again. "Hear me out. It may sound strange but…"
"But what?" Grigori asked harshly.
Illya sat silent. Here comes another stupid suggestion. All they needed to do was send him out to meet Klaus Ockley or one of the other suspects on their list of buyers. He'd be in so fast it would make their heads spin. Finally he had to speak up.
"All I have to do is meet Dr. Ockley by chance and talk to him. I'll be inside before you sit down to tea," Illya declared.
"No. Our KGB superiors have made a mistake. You are far too young to be accepted as a scientist. We have to find another way," Grigori stated and then looked back to Yuri.
A hideous smirk crossed Yuri's face and he downed his shot of vodka. Illya shifted uncomfortably. He felt Yuri's idea wouldn't bode well for him.
"They have parties. Rather wild ones on a regular basis. Marco Olivetti provides the entertainment. I have no doubt that Illya Nicovetch could slip in that way. We'd have the information we need in days. A couple weeks perhaps."
Illya was pleased that they were still planning on sending him in. After all this was what the Motherland spent so much time and money to train him for. A musician wasn't exactly the plan he expected, but he could play several instruments and had done some amateur theatre. It was less direct but still acceptable. It was unfortunate he didn't know who Marco Olivetti was when he spoke up. "I could manage that, too. What instrument do I have to play?"
Sasha let out a guttural laugh. He'd spent evenings in the cantina with Yuri. He knew of Olivetti's business. "You just have to play the pipe. I think you'd do well."
Grigori was going to reject the idea outright but paused to think about it as he studied Illya's fresh youthful face.
"Pipe?" Illya looked at their leering faces suspiciously. "What kind of pipe?"
"The fleshy kind, of course," said Yuri. "Signore Olivetti is what the Americans call a pimp. He deals in human merchandise."
Illya's eyes widened. "You want me to be a prostitute?"
The others' laughter had a hard edge to it.
"For someone who's supposed to be such a genius, it took you long enough to figure it out," sneered Yuri.
Illya shook his head. "No, absolutely not. I don't see how it would get me near those missiles, anyway."
"Ockley is a known homosexual," Yuri said. "He likes very young men, especially pretty blond ones. He often pays for one to stay with him the entire time he's in a city and takes him everywhere. All you have to do is make sure he chooses you when he comes to Naples."
"But I'm not a homosexual," Illya insisted.
The others looked at each other and laughed. "If you say so," laughed Grigori. "You'll know how to please a man by the time Olivetti is finished with you, though. From what I've heard, he has the absolute best prostitutes, especially the boys."
"Our superiors will not agree to this plan!" Illya persisted.
Yuri slammed his hand onto the table, sending the candle skittering dangerously close to the edge. "Our superiors gave me," he growled, stabbing a finger into his chest. "ME free rein with this mission. Colonel Sarkov told me I had carte blanche with whatever I wanted to do to get this done. They will pat me on the back and say, 'good job' when my plan completes this mission to their satisfaction."
Illya vehemently disagreed, but he had nothing to fight with. Andreov would back him up, but his adopted uncle was only a major and a subordinate to Colonel Sarkov. He had no more say in this than Illya himself did. No, Illya was stuck and he knew it.
He said no more, his expression on the outside remaining impassive and blank. Inside, though, he screamed in frustration and terror. This would change his life forever.
January 1956
Chilled boot heels clicked on the cold floor as the three men shook the snow from their collars. The tallest man removed his fur cap and brushed the icy crystals off before tucking it under his arm. All three pulled out their identification cards and paraded by the security checkpoint.
A stone-faced man nodded at the men and the gate was buzzed open. Many important and high ranking officials of the party were coming in. He suspected a meeting was to take place soon.
"The air is warm today Andreov," Sarkov growled. "I have never seen such mild weather."
"I am sure you will change that at the meeting," Alexei stated with the air growing icier between them.
"I hear the Premier has plans to join this U.N.C.L.E. organization." Sarkov remained neutral as he tried to pry information on Andreov's position out of the man. "This could be good for us. If we had a spy in an organization such as that it would be easier to infiltrate the United States and elsewhere."
"This is not a spying operation Sarkov. You know that as well as I," Andreov replied to the weasel of a man, his disgust and despise growing with each breath he had to share in the same room. "You will have your chance to make your case in there the same as I but do not assume to make me an ally in your cause."
Sarkov frowned. "Perhaps you do not feel as strongly for the Motherland as I."
Alexei squared his shoulders and stood, his full 6-foot height towering above the shorter Sarkov. "Never question my love for Mother Russia." The look on his face intimidated the other man enough not to push things in the hallway any farther. At one time, Sarkov outranked Andreov. Since that fiasco in Naples, however, things had changed. Now he was the subordinate and Andreov the ranking officer.
More men arrived and stripped off their great coats in preparation for a conference of importance. They filtered into the meeting room where the debate would begin on sending a representative to fulfill an agreement whereby they would be a part of The U.N.C.L.E. and therein receive information on the operations of THRUSH. The meaning of THRUSH's name was unknown, but its actions became a threat even within the Soviet Union.
Over the next thirty minutes the rest of the committee arrived and took seats around the large rectangular table. The chairman took his seat and everyone quieted as the meeting was called to order. It was the last civil word before all the debating began.
Chairman Yashin stood up and addressed the group. "The Premier has decreed that we send an agent, preferably male, to the organization U.N.C.L.E." He raised his hand to call an end to the chatter that broke out. "The debate about joining U.N.C.L.E. has ended. There will be no more discussion on that subject," he said in a raised voice. "We are here to decide who that person shall be and nothing more."
The grumbling subsided reluctantly.
"The candidates have been reduced to three," the chairman explained. "Piotr Vasillovitch Borishnishski, Illya Nicovetch Kuryakin, and Anitolay Ivanovetch Tchekov."
Immediately Sarkov slammed a hand on the table to gain attention. "Kuryakin should not even be on that list. He has not finished his training."
A voice from across the table responded, "He is too young in any case. An agent with more experience is called for here."
Down the row from that one another spoke up. "We don't want to waste one of our best agents in such a menial assignment as this. There is little to be gained having a real agent there on our behalf. They would suspect him of being nothing more than a spy in any case."
"True," Alexei agreed seeing this as his chance. "He has not had the conventional training and is unreliable in the field, at least for our purposes. For the purposes of the U.N.C.L.E., however, he might be the perfect candidate."
"Not so!" Sarkov yelled. "I was not finished with him. I need more time!"
"Time? You have had him since he was eleven. In fact you may be responsible for his perversions," Alexei argued back. Forgive me Anna, my dear sister. I know you think of him as your son, but it's the only way I know how to save him. "We need to get rid of him and it will be to our advantage. U.N.C.L.E. will get a qualified candidate, and we gain something from a failed project."
And that was how it began. From that point the meeting got more heated and louder. In the end, Alexei prevailed and he saved his sister's foster son from his Soviet Union fate.
June 1967
Waverly finished the debriefing, and agents Solo, Kuryakin, and Dancer were on their way out when the head of U.N.C.L.E. New York picked up on a call holding for him.
As usual Napoleon stopped at the secretary's desk to chat, his undeniable charm hanging thick in the room.
Illya rolled his eyes and was about to say something cutting to Napoleon when a familiar name caught his attention. It came from the room they'd just left and sent a chill down his spine. He turned to face the big door slowly sliding closed and heard Waverly's voice.
"Antonio Vicente is an incredibly wealthy man. If he's financing THRUSH activities there, our European interests could be up against…."
That was all Illya caught before the rest was cut off by the door separating them from the other office.
"Are you coming, Illya?" Napoleon asked.
Illya for once looked like he was caught off guard. "What?" He recovered quickly. "Oh yes. It's about time you finished your standard flirting."
The sourness in the response kept Napoleon from asking any embarrassing questions as they walked back to their office.
Illya was grateful for Solo's self-absorbed personality at times like this. It allowed him the privilege of privacy even in the CEA's presence. Illya sat down at his desk and stared at the open report with eyes that would not focus on its words. In his mind one name echoed over and over from a distant place and time. Antonio Vicente.
Last time he heard that name he was mired in the worst mission of his life. All those since, all THRUSH cells, paled in comparison. Not because of what he'd had to do, even though being a prostitute in Olivetti's stable in order to find the missiles the Soviets lost was not something he enjoyed. Not exactly, anyway. It was what he discovered about himself that made it such a difficult time of his life.
The only exception to that had been Antonio Vicente. The man Waverly spoke of simply could not be the Antonio Illya knew. His Antonio had a heart as big as the muscular chest that housed it. Bigger, even, than his considerable bank account. Generous, giving, thoughtful, caring. These were the hallmarks of the Vicente he knew. He would never bankroll an evil group like THRUSH.
Neither Vicente nor Antonio were uncommon names, at least not among Italians. The one Waverly mentioned had to be someone else. He worked to put the name and the memories out of his mind. At least for the moment. He could think about Antonio again later in the privacy of his own bedroom, just as he'd done for the last ten years. Now he had work to do.
Napoleon took his usual seat in the office and leaned back in his chair. He put his feet up on the corner of the desk and drew his mail closer to peruse its contents. The one labeled "You may already be a winner!" he discarded without opening.
As Illya flipped open another report to read, the corner of his eye caught the unopened mail in Napoleon's trash. "Don't you think you should read that? It looks like it may be important."
"Why do you say that?" Napoleon replied as he glanced over his shoulder to the waste paper basket.
"Maybe the large red letters that say 'Important'," he replied innocently.
Napoleon frowned. "Junk mail."
"How do you know? You haven't opened it," Illya replied.
"You can open it if you want to," Napoleon said and then reached over to pick it out. He tossed it across to Illya. "Maybe you'll be lucky."
Illya looked at the envelope. "I cannot open this."
"Why not?" Napoleon asked while trying to focus on a letter from one of his enamored femme fatales from a few months back.
Illya held it up and pointed to the front. "It has your name on it. It is quite obvious that it is addressed to you in person."
"Which is why I know it's junk mail," Napoleon insisted. "Don't you ever get junk mail?"
"Certainly not." Illya was adamant in his reply. "The mail carrier would never put junk in my mail box."
Napoleon decided not to say what was on his mind at that moment. He had a vision of Illya chasing the postman down the block shooting at his heels. Knowing Illya well though, in real life it would probably have been dead center in the back. "I see. Well, if you're that concerned about it and don't want to take my word for it, go ahead and open it for yourself."
"I don't want to open it, but I think you should."
Giving up, Napoleon took in and released a long breath. He tucked the letter he'd been reading into his pocket and said, "I'll see you later. I've got some… uh... research that needs doing."
Illya looked back down at the reports to fill out. Go call your latest conquest. I don't care, he thought in the hopes of convincing himself it was true. From their lowered position he let his eyes follow Napoleon's shadow out of the office and waited for the door to close before sitting back up in his chair. The irritation he kept hidden from the world around him gnawed quietly at his gut.
The briefs of the THRUSH activities in Naples Waverly requested were being compiled for his review. Until they came in, he had a couple of hours, a rarity, free to take care of some personal business of his own.
Waverly left U.N.C.L.E. to return to his home, where a housekeeper had called to leave word that the special package from an unnamed party had arrived. Once at home he entered his study, closed and locked the door behind him, and went straight to his desk where the sealed padded envelope sat perfectly placed.
From years of use, the large leather chair behind the desk was contoured like a glove to fit the senior man. It made a small muffled squeak when Waverly settled into it. He bypassed his usual routine of lighting up his pipe first, wanting to see the envelope's contents instead. It was quite a surprise as nothing of this kind had ever happened before.
There was a small hissing sound of cut paper as Waverly tore the top with the engraved letter opener. He spread the opening wider and grasped the small, leather bound book inside. The obvious age of the documents showed in its tattered edges and discolored appearance. Cyrillic writing gave away its origins as Soviet. Waverly knew he would need the help of a translator, but he could not trust anyone from U.N.C.L.E.. The contents were too explosive for that judging by the short note in English attached to the front cover. This was something he would have to trust to a dear and long time friend with no associations to the U.N.C.L.E. organization. A professor from the university Waverly knew from the time he was twenty-five.
He reached for the phone and dialed a number from memory. After three rings, the other line was answered. Ten minutes later he hung up having made arrangements to get the file to Professor John Stillwell the very next day.
He sat back for a rare minute of relaxation, pleased with the afternoon's productivity. It wouldn't be long now before he would have an even better understanding of what made Illya Kuryakin tick.
The file was from Alexei Andreov, a former mentor of Mr. Kuryakin's. The man had already discussed past problems Kuryakin had with psychiatrists when Kuryakin first joined the U.N.C.L.E. Andreov had left a file with him then. Waverly had not felt the need to read it then since he and Andreov had met face to face and discussed the problem. It wasn't until recently that he'd really read the thing, which included many details Alexei had left out. That had been bad enough. He wondered what horror stories this new folder would tell him. More worrying, why had Alexei decided he needed to send it now?
Before he could ponder the questions further, the call came from headquarters. The Vicente information was in and he had to return.
Napoleon sighed in disgust as he read the love letter. He felt nothing for this woman. Less than nothing. Yet he would call her just as her letter suggested. They would go out. Have dinner. Dance. Have sex.
God, it was all so meaningless anymore. Ever since he realized he had a craving for Illya, his liaisons with women left him cold. But what choice did he have? Illya didn't want him in the same way. Not anymore.
He thought about what it felt like to have Illya's hard, muscular body beneath him rather than the soft, yielding one of a woman. He had to admit he'd enjoyed sex with Illya in a way he never had with anyone else in his life. Not because he liked sex with a man. No sir. Napoleon Solo was no pansy. The reason he loved sex with Illya was because there was something more to it. Something he couldn't quite name.
To prove his point to himself, he went to find a free phone. He'd use the one in his office, but he didn't want to arrange for a date in front of Illya. Illya may no longer want him, but he thought making a date in front of him would hurt him and Napoleon didn't want to do that. At least, not anymore.
When Illya first broke off the physical part of their relationship and started seeing other men, Napoleon had purposely made dates within earshot of his estranged lover. He enjoyed seeing the jealousy there. Once he'd realized how much he must have hurt Illya by running out on him right after fucking him, his need for petty revenge turned to ashes in his mouth. Now he dated on the sly as much as possible, although, for appearances sake, he couldn't do so completely.
Before he could make the call his communicator whistled. "Solo here," he answered.
"Hi, Napoleon. Mr. Waverly wants to see you right away."
"Ahh, Lisa, my sweet. Do you know what he wants me for?"
"He's not in the habit of telling me his plans, but I'm willing to bet it's an assignment."
"I'll be right there," he crooned.
"I'll be waiting," she promised in a throaty tone.
He grinned as he turned his communicator back into a pen. Maybe sex with women hadn't lost its luster, after all. All he needed was the proper companion. He vowed to make a date with Lisa before the meeting. If anyone could make him forget what Illya's body felt like, it would be her.
"Antonio Vicente," Waverly announced when the picture of a man appeared on the view screen.
The man looked exactly the same as the last time Illya had seen him. Olive skin. Dark, curly hair. Dark eyes. Not handsome but attractive. Very attractive.
"A self-made man. Almost frighteningly wealthy by all appearances," Waverly continued. "He seems to be the money behind the THRUSH operation in Naples."
Oh, Antonio, Illya thought with dismay. How did you get mixed up with THRUSH?
Whatever it was, Illya was certain Antonio didn't know what THRUSH was all about. He couldn't know! Antonio just wasn't like that!
"You want us to take this Vicente out of the picture?" asked Napoleon.
Waverly nodded. "Determine exactly what Mr. Vicente is paying for and shut him, and THRUSH, down. Mr. Kuryakin, you will go in undercover as a driver. We have managed to arrange for this."
Illya stared at Waverly like a deer caught in the headlights. Go in undercover on Antonio's estate? He might be able to get onto the estate, but it certainly couldn't be clandestine. Antonio knew him all too well.
Illya knew the only way he could get it would be to reprise his role as Angelo. Yuri and his other Soviet companions during that disastrous Naples KGB mission had given Illya's prostitute persona the name Angelo, thinking it funny to call their fellow agent "angel." Fallen angel was more like it.
He wondered how Antonio would react to seeing Angelo again. Was the handsome Italian still in love with the young man he thought was a prostitute? Or was he still hurt and angry about how Angelo had left? Unfortunately, he was going to find out all too soon.
"Mr. Solo, you will be posing as a wealthy businessman interested in antiquities. Mr. Vicente makes a good bit of his money from the antiquities business."
"Sounds simple enough. My Aunt Amy has a few as a matter of fact," he replied as he studied the image on the first page of the folder. "Looks like this fellow lives the good life," he commented on the well dressed image. He glanced over at his partner, expecting to see his lips pursed in distaste. Illya had a thing about people who not only had great wealth, but abused it.
Napoleon frowned when Illya did not look over like he usually did. As a matter of fact, the Russian sat strangely silent throughout the briefing.
"Looks like he has quite the estate," Napoleon said dismissing it for the moment. He'd find out what was going on in that head later. "Is THRUSH working out of the house?"
Waverly put down his pipe and pursed his lips as he thought it over. "There is construction going on at the estate. We believe it houses a hidden complex where the real work of THRUSH is going on. That will be your job, Mr. Kuryakin."
Illya raised his head to look at Waverly. "Sir?"
"As a member of the staff you can wander about the place. Find the entrance and determine what is going on there."
Illya swallowed and then nodded.
Napoleon closed the folder. "When do we leave?"