Illya Kuryakin sat alone on the rooftop of UNCLE's London headquarters, lost in his thoughts and feeling lonely. He'd lived in London for over five years; his first two years as an agent for the GRU as he attended Cambridge, while receiving his doctorate in quantum physics, and then three years with UNCLE, before being transferred to New York.
He'd gone through a slew of partners once arriving in America, as they all simply did not want to work with him again. They said he was unfriendly and a pain in the ass. Illya had no trouble with dealing with it as his feeling was that he was there to do a job and not to make friends, and as to being a pain in the zhopa...oh well. Things seemed to change for the better when he was paired with the number one agent, in UNCLE Northwest.
He'd heard all about Solo at Survival School and was pleasantly surprised the rumors were true. The man was good, very good...
Illya had just returned from an assignment with his partner and so far they'd lasted together six months, a record for both men as Napoleon went through partners as well, like water through a sieve.
They worked well together, but inspite of their efforts this latest mission had been unsuccessful and an innocent life was lost. That weighed heavily on the Russian, seemingly more so than his partner.
Solo was alway upbeat, optimistic and seemed to slough off such situation more easily, though Illya suspected the death of the woman did bother him, Napoleon showed no outward signs of it.
Kuryakin was a prone to brooding, as one could tell by the writers and poets of his country, this melancholia was kith and kin to the Russian soul. He took the outcome of this particular mission more to heart and went over again and again what had happened, trying to figure out if things could have been done differently.
This was his weakness...innocents, and GRU knew that when they offered him up to UNCLE like a sacrificial lamb, thinking he wouldn't survive his first year in the field. They believed he was soft, and he supposed to a point they were partly correct in their assumption.
Sentimentality had no place in the world of espionage, yet it clung to Illya like a shroud. He could not rid himself of it, yet conversely, when it came to dealing with his enemies he could be a cold-hearted bastard.
He supposed it was the ethics his parents had instilled in him as a small boy that influenced him the most, though his harsh life growing up and his Military Intelligence training as a Soviet agent drove much of it out of him; he still managed to hold onto the lifeline that was the sense of decency his family had taught him. Those lessons and the treasured memories of his long dead family were all he had and he voraciously clung to them in silence.
These were things he couldn't talk about with Napoleon, though he wanted to. His feelings of self-preservation, of never letting anyone know too much about him kept him alive longer, he was sure of it. That thinking always stopped him from telling the American about his past, his secrets, as it were.
Though their partnership was still young, Illya already trusted Solo with his life, yet he could not trust him, or anyone else with his soul. Many would have been surprised to hear Kuryakin admittig to having one, since publicly he was a self-proclaimed agnostic and a card carrying Communist.
It was a lonely game he played, and one in which Illya felt he had no choice, just as his line of work had been thrust upon him, absent of choice.
There were times Napoleon would ask him questions, and he might answer him in half-truths, complete lies or not at all. Why he kept up that charade, hiding behind a false, emotionless face that he maintained to protect himself was a mystery to him.
Illya asked himself, was he afraid? He knew if he told his partner of his unhappy life growing up in the Soviet Union, having lost his entire family during the war, his stay in a concentration camp and life afterwards in orphanages and the few friend he had taken away from him... would only elicit pity. That was something the former Soviet agent would not stand for. No. He wanted no sympathies. It was better to hide the truth, keeping up the masquerade as the "Ice Prince," a name he'd heard himself called behind his back because he was cold and emotionless.
Illya knew his partner could see things, looking into his eyes and wondering why there was this wall he kept between them. Maybe he would eventually be able to tell Napoleon Solo some truths about his past, but not today.
He heard the crunch of gravel behind him, and extinguished his cigarette, he turned to see his partner standing behind him in the shadows.
"I knew you'd be up here tovarisch."
"Am I becoming that predictable already?" Kuryakin thought to himself, that wasn't a good thing.
"Yes I suppose in a way you are," Napoleon cracked a smile," but only I know, so your secret's safe with me."
Illya pulled two smokes from the pack in his pocket, offering one to the American.
Napoleon took it, producing his 'Zippo' to light them both. Together they stood in silence taking a drag on their cigarettes, looking out at the view of Big Ben, and the Thames, with lights twinkling on its dark waters.
"You okay chum?"
"No, not really." He could at least admit that truth to his partner. "I have been trying to figure out what could have been done differently in order to have saved the girl."
"Me too...come up with an answer?"
"Nyet. How is it Napoleon that you are so upbeat all the time, even with the death of this innocent?"
"I think you already know I'm pretty much an optimist, seeing the cup half-full instead of half-empty, but trust me there are things that do get me down. I just don't wear my heart on my sleeve."
"Wearing your heart on your sleeve," Illya's expression went blank."What does that mean?"
"It means expressing your feelings openly. People tend to take emotions for weakness, especially when you love hard for example, and it shows. I guess, unless you have a very good relationship with someone you trust, such as a friend, then it's okay to show your emotions...and I'd like to think that you and I are friends."
Illya took a long drag on his cigarette, tossed it down and extinguished it against the gravel with the toe of his shoe.
"I suppose this saying cannot apply to me as I choose not to show my feelings, or share things as so many people choose to do so...sometimes giving out a little too much information in my estimation. What is the term I have heard back in New York...'sharing is caring?' I am sorry I cannot do that with you my friend, it is difficult for me, as I have had to keep everything...my life and my secrets bottled up inside me. It is how I have learned to protect myself and to survive all these years."
Napoleon clasped his hand on his partner's shoulder.
"It's okay chum, as long as you have my back and I have yours, that's all we need to know. I trust you with my life and that's good enough for me," he smiled again, "I'm a patient man, maybe someday you'll tell me about the things you keep bottled up inside you, and maybe you won't. It's fine either way, though I have to admit, sometimes you do get me curious. You are an intriguing man, partner mine."
"Thank you Napoleon, I appreciate your candor and trust. I know you have my back as well." Illya was beginning to like this man more and more, and the fact that Solo called him friend, struck a chord with the Russian. Not even back in his days with GRU had he been truly named someone's friend. He had only two friends since he was a child. Irina, a young girl he'd met in the ruins of Kyiv and who died in the concentration camp, and Natasha Asimov, his friend and lover in the orphanage, but she too was long dead.*
Solo extinguished his cigarette with a sigh. "Loyalty is important to me, both giving and receiving. I have a feeling you haven't experience much of that, have you?"
"No, not really."
"Well I guarantee you have mine. Just remember, we exist in a veiled world of subterfuge.. smoke and mirrors if you will, and we're always keeping up the pretense my friend. Our jobs are but masks we wear, and as long as we don't get lost in our work, we'll be fine. It's what we do, but not who we are. We'll have our failures like we did today, but we'll have more successes in fighting the good fight... I can just feel it. We have a good chemistry together, and that's what makes this partnership a strong one."
Illya finally smiled, banishing his somber visage. His partners up-beat attitude was a good influence for him, and he needed that at the moment to get him out of his melancholia.
The two men pulled up their collars as it started to drizzle. A flash of lightning exploded across the night sky foillowed by distant rumble of thunder.
Solo and Kuryakin turned, heading to the door to take them inside.
"Hey tovarisch, let's go get something to eat. How about some fish and chips?" Napoleon grinned.
"Sounds like a good idea to me, as I am famished. I know a good chippie not far from headqarters. I was stationed here for three years under Harry Beldon, if you recall."
"Illya you're always famished."
"Yes, and that is no lie. I guess you do know a little about me Napoleon," the Russian laughed, letting down his guard just a bit...
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* ref "White Nights" and "Beginnings"