It had been a long week for U.N.C.L.E.'s top team. Their assignment had been declared a success, despite it leaving Solo unconscious and broken in medical. Until their rescuers had been able to get to them, Illya had spent a very difficult two days keeping his partner alive. Now, three days after their return, he finally felt able to leave his partner's side. Napoleon had emerged into consciousness a few times, and each time he'd been more alert and coherent. As Illya left, two young nurses watched him go.

"I thought they were meant to be partners," Nurse Patty Jenson said, with a slight sneer. "He hardly showed any concern for Mr Solo."

"He has barely moved from that chair for three days," Nurse Rosie Locke countered. "That must say something."

"I reckon it's because he's completely emotionless," Patty continued. "Like most Russians. If you peeled away the flesh, you'd probably find a robot beneath, all steel and wires. I'll bet he bleeds oil."

"Nurse Jenson!"

The women turned to see the very angry looking Head Nurse, Maisie Redfearn. She had heard what her colleagues had said and couldn't believe her ears.

"Let me tell you something about Mr Kuryakin," she practically snarled. "I have watched that man sitting by that bed several times, and I've witnessed him go through every emotion known to humankind. I have also seen beneath his flesh on far too many occasions, and believe me when I say that he bleeds the same red blood as the rest of us. Now, please see to Mr Solo's dressings, Nurse Jenson."

Nurse Redfearn wasn't the only person who had overheard the conversation.

"You couldn't be more wrong about Illya you know, Patty," Napoleon told her, wincing as he tried to find a more comfortable position. "What you see is the mask he has found it necessary to construct."

"I'm sorry Mr Solo," Patty mumbled. "I haven't had a lot to do with Mr Kuryakin, but he always seems so cold and detached."

"Well, they don't call him the Ice Prince for nothing," Solo agreed. "Listen, Illya has lived a life which has taught him not to show any vulnerability. This has resulted in him building a massive wall around himself. It's a wall which doesn't come down easily. By the way, it's fairly obvious you haven't met many Russian's, because if you had, you'd know them to be passionate, creative and full of dark humour."

Patty hung her head in embarrassment, and looked as though she would burst into tears. Napoleon hated to see a sad woman, so he took hold her hand and kissed the back of it.

"Don't worry," he said softly. "Illya Kuryakin is a hard man for anyone to decipher. I'll let you into a little secret, but you must promise you will never let him know I told you this."

Patty nodded. "I promise."

"What day is it?" he asked, and on being told it was Tuesday, he grinned. "If you go the Parisian Jazz Club in the Village at about nine o' clock tomorrow night, you'll see something surprising."

MFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFU

Illya entered the club with his english horn safely ensconced it its case. He was immediately greeted by several people wearing the very latest in beatnik style, just as he was. Although, he did have to admit he didn't look much different than he did at work.

"Hey man, you made it. Ready to play?"

"I certainly am ready," the Russian replied, holding up the case. "I need to sooth my senses."

"Cool. Get yourself a vodka or two and we'll be ready in about ten minutes."

Forty minutes later, Patty arrived at the club with Rosie. Neither woman was a particular fan of jazz, but they were curious as to why Mr Solo had sent them here. Looking round the room, they felt somewhat out of place. Most people were in black where Patty wore red and Rosie was in blue. It quickly became clear however, that no-one really cared what they had on. A few people gave the new faces a cursory glance, but soon turned back to the music. The two women crossed over to the bar, looking over at the band but not taking much notice.

On the platform, which was used as a low stage, Illya was in his own version of heaven. From the first moment he'd heard illicit recordings of people like Dave Brubeck or Chet Baker, he'd been utterly enamoured. In comparison to his regimented life, the music was wonderfully chaotic and free. The teenaged Kuryakin had been transported by rhythms and the passion. In Russia, listening to such music could lead to dire consequences, but that only made it all the sweeter. Once he left his homeland, Illya had dived headlong into European jazz; going so far as to learn several instruments in order to play for himself.

Arriving in New York, he'd quickly discovered where all the best clubs were and soon began to frequent the ones which encouraged participation. The Parisian club had been opened by a man Illya had known in Paris, and because of this, the Russian ended up playing there whenever he had a free Wednesday. It was the perfect antidote to his stressful life.

Sipping on her drink, Patty finally took a proper look at the band and almost choked.

"You okay?" Rosie asked.

Patty merely pointed at the stage. Rosie followed the finger and saw a man she recognised immediately. She had known that there must be more to Mr Kuryakin than Patty was presuming. At HQ, he always looked so stern and unapproachable. There were rumours that he was unable to feel anything apart from contemptuous arrogance.

Watching, as he skilfully produced a wonderful sound from his instrument, both women could see the sheer joy he was experiencing. It was as though he'd had a personality transplant. Between numbers, Illya was laughing and joking with his band mates; clearly having the time of his life.

Patty suddenly felt as though she had an apology to make. The problem was, Mr Kuryakin had no idea she had wronged him.

MFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFU

"I have to apologise to you Mr Solo," Patty said, as she straightened Napoleon's pillows. "I went to the Parisian last night and you were right. I did see something surprising. Mr Kuryakin is a superb musician, and you can't play like that if you have no emotion."

"There really is no need to apologise, Patty," Solo told her. "He gives an impression which always causes people to take him the wrong way."

"Are you talking about me?"

"Good morning, Tovarisch. Nurse Patty here was just telling me how astounded she was to see you at the Parisian last night."

"Is that right? Did you have a good evening?"

"To be honest, Mr Kuryakin, I've never really liked jazz, but I thought you played marvellously."

"That is very kind of you to say," Illya replied, offering her a coy smile and a slight bow. "Maybe I shall see you there again sometime."

Patty blushed furiously. "M. . maybe," she stuttered. "Will you excuse me, please?"

Dashing out of the room, patty headed straight for the ladies room. She was found there a couple of minutes later, splashing water on her face, by Rosie.

"Patty, whatever is the matter?"

"It's terrible," the other woman cried. "I think I have a crush on Mr Kuryakin."

The End.