A Man from U.N.C.L.E. Story
by Darklady
Chapter Thirty: Both Sides Now
Rated: R (The boys try something new in bed.)
************
I take a cab home. Napoleon is waiting when I arrive.
"How did lunch go?"
I shrug. "Grustov gave me vodka, bought me lunch, quizzed me on my Chinese, and then offered me a job - in the language lab."
"So it's a total waste."
"It was good vodka."
"Any chance it was a contact?"
"Anything is possible, but..... I am almost ready to believe these people are telling the truth." A thought so preposterous as to bring a smile to my lips. Which reminds me of another preposterous thought. "Oh, and Napasha? The ex-spies club meets on Monday nights at the Faculty Club. We now have a standing invitation."
I wait until he stops laughing before I add, "How was your day?"
Somehow that question was even funnier. So it is a bit before he tells me. "I got together with a stock broker at the company April told me was handling things. Seems she was telling the truth abut our salaries. Remember that stock fund, the direct deposit thing I talked you into? Well, she kept up the deposits. Our entire salaries. Which, between regular investments, and some long term growth .... and a little luck." He pulls out a thick sheaf of papers and hands them to me. "I don't think money's going to be a problem any time soon. Even at these prices."
I read over the first page. "Very impressive."
"I'm not authorized to discuss your account, so I told him you'd be by to talk later."
I take a much closer look at the figures. I start to add them, then give up. "Perhaps, if he gives me equally good news - I will forgive you for talking me into becoming a disgusting capitalist." I look again at the letterhead. Apparently there is a direct line for information. Excellent. That will save a drive.
I dial it. The young lady who answers asks for my social security number, then my mothers maiden name. Strange questions, but after I answer them she does get the man on the line.
Napoleon excuses himself, heading for the kitchen.
"Mr. Chalmers? This is Illya Kuryakin. Mr. Solo spoke with you earlier today?"
That was all that was required to set the man off on a flurry of numbers. I try to take notes, but soon give it up. Between dividends and reinvestment and share-averaged returns? Nothing he says makes sense to me anyway.
"Very interesting," I insert when he finally runs out of breath. " Do you think you could mail that to me?"
My question inspires another volley of verbiage, but in the end he agrees. Good. It would have to be clearer on paper. Although... I look at the final number I had been given.
Napoleon steps back carrying a plate of sandwiches and two glasses of wine.
"How did it go?" he asks, handing me a glass.
"Apparently Russians are now even more disgusting capitalists."
"What?"
"When you *insisted* that I join you in that retirement scheme, the man asked where I wanted to invest. I naturally directed the company to support Soviet Heavy Industry," I explain.
"Very patriotic."
"I thought so."
"And the result?"
I hand him my scribbled figures.
"Very nice." Napasha raises his glass. " Smart, blond, and now rich. I always knew I had good taste."
I look again at the impossible numbers. "Napasha, either the world has gone mad, or I have."
"Probably us." When I look up, he chuckles. "You have to admit, it is the more logical choice."
"Yes."
"Do you mind?"
I look again at what I had written. "No."
********************
This is Mark's night to make dinner. Apparently that means steaks on the barbecue. I once again have salad duty, while Napoleon is deputized to choose a wine.
Mark has fired up the garden heaters. We are eating outside again. Interesting. The restaurant where Grustov took me was outdoors as well. Californians seem have developed some strange aversion to buildings, although they build enough.
The sunset is turning pink as I finish setting the table. A breeze is swaying the fruit trees , but it is warm and pleasant. Only enough to carry the scent of roses from the front yard. Two hummingbirds flit around the feeder on the back fence. No wonder the people here live outdoors. With this weather, who would not?
I have just set out the glasses when David comes in. "Dinner ready?" he asks, dropping into his chair with a sigh of mock exhaustion. "Great, I'm starved."
"I told you not to let Nachiem ruin your appetite," Mark answers as he slips the steaks on a platter, and we all sit.
"Napoleon, I see you found a car." David comments, taking a deep swallow of wine.
"BMW Convertible. It will do for now." Napasha spears a steak and passes the platter to David. "The rental place delivered it around noon. I wanted a Porsche, but apparently none were available." He tries for a look of long-suffering as picks up his wine. "Oh well. Once Illya is settled, I suppose I should buy one."
"Unless April can find yours." Mark scoops up some salad. "Corr, that thing would be a classic. What did you have? Six thousand miles?"
"I don't remember. I was never home to drive it."
I help myself to a baked potato. "I told you private cars were a waste."
"Get used to it, Kuryakin." David laughs as I hand him the platter. "If you live in sunny California, you'll both need one."
Mark lifts his glass and adds,"At least one."
One each? Well, that is a thought. Not exactly a pleasant thought, but if extra driving is the price for such a life? I have paid more for less. "How was your day?" I ask David.
"Hellish. Head of the department somehow learned that you were visiting with Grustov, and she wants you to speak to her class."
"What?" I pause with my fork halfway to my mouth. " I am not an economist."
"Neither is she."
"David!"
"Mark, the woman drives a Yugo!"
I hesitate, but.. Mark is a friend. A *brother*. If I cannot ask him, what trust is there? "That is the second time I have heard that. What is wrong with driving a Yugo?"
"Nothing. It's a political thing."
"With her" David snorts. "Everything is!"
"What do you expect?" Mark's voice takes on a tone of forced tolerance. "She's a registered communist - and they haven't been having it so easy lately. You could show a little compassion."
I look at them both. "What has that to do with her economics class about which I know nothing?"
"She's just hoping you'll show up and bitch about how California sucks." When Mark gives him another look, David subsides, but grumbles. "That's what all her guests do."
"How would I know if California 'sucks', as you so elegantly put it?" I ask. "I have only been here one day." I check my watch and add, "Not even that."
David grins. "No problem. When you teach economics - everything sucks."
"One of the advantages of Political Science," Mark agrees. "For us, everything is wonderful - at least for 51% of the time."
"Except in Florida."
"That was an exception."
"That was a disaster."
Mark takes a drink. "Not for people looking for jobs in the polling industry."
"True," David agrees, reaching for his glass. He turns to me. "Plans for tomorrow?"
"I think I will spend it in the library," I answer.
"Good idea," Mark says. "I'll sign you in for my department so you can check out reference books. Faculty privileges."
*****************
After dinner, we sit by the fire sipping brandy. Soft jazz is playing over the garden speakers. Mark and David are debating some incomprehensible political point about some poet I have never heard of. There is a slight wind, but it is only cool enough to make the heat of the fireplace as welcome as the flickering light.
I look up at the hazy stars and consider my day. My very busy day. My very strange busy day.
"Napasha." I raise my glass. "I am rethinking my opinion. We are sane. It is the entire planet that is crazy."
*****************
Warm, showered, and bonelessly comfortable, I relax against the pillows. Half asleep, unworried, my glasses lying on top of my pistol on the nightstand. The window is open, and a stray zephyr carries the scent of roses.
Napasha lifts the sheet and slides in beside me. He smells so good. Orange blossoms and wood smoke mingle somehow still in his hair. He feels so warm, a constant sun, a light and life to my soul. And tonight? He is again with me tonight.
I roll over, flinging my arm across his chest. He strokes my hair, and his lips press the soft flesh above my ear with infinite tenderness.
Suddenly, I have the beautiful moment of realization that we will, perhaps, do this every night for the rest of our lives. That we will go to bed at night and wake in the morning and live every day without madness or lies or fear.
"Napasha?" I whisper.
"Yes, my Illyusha?" he murmurs, his breath teasing the short hair at my nape. "What is it?"
I press my face into the soft curls of his chest, feeling them catch in the fluttering of my lashes.
"What do you want, Illya?" he asks again.
I feel the blush rise, flaming in my cheeks as the words die unspoken.
"Illyusha?"
I lay a kiss in the hollow of his throat. "Could we...?" I start, then the words fail me.
"Anything you want," Napasha whispers, brushing the fallen bangs from my forehead. "Anything."
I clutch his shoulder, reveling in the strong play of muscle, the known strength of arms built by hour after hour of effort. The deep power of his chest.
"Could we...?" My breath catches as his tongue passes tenderly over the crest of my ear.
"Anything, lyubovnick"
I take a shuddering breath. "Do you think we could.... sleep?"
"Yes." Napasha chuckles gently as he pulls me closer. "We can."
END CHAPTER THIRTY