THERE BE MONSTERS HERE

Missing scene and Epilogue from:

THE QUADRIPARTITE AFFAIR

While protecting Marion Raven from enemies who want to capture her, Illya is exposed to a fear-gas bio-weapon.

I

Illya failing the check-in on time kick-started the concern. Three minutes late. Not much. Significant when the witness being protected was in enough danger to warrant an agent – Kuryakin – to stay behind and guard her.

Three minutes.

To some that might not seem like a danger signal. Within the bonds of a partnership it incited Napoleon Solo's anxieties.

Dialing the phone, he kept tight rein on the churning apprehension. He was standing with Mr. Waverly and another agent. Always chastisement from the former about partnerships teetering from acceptable parameters of teamwork to recklessness because the bonds were now glued together with caring. Opening himself up for teasing from the latter – the woman he had just been flirting with outrageously.

No answer.

Not a chance the Russian was distracted by the voluptuous blond he was protecting. There was an obvious attraction between Illya and Marion Raven. That very chemistry would assure the agent-guard would be hyper-vigilant.

Trepidation mounted.

No answer.

"I'm going over there."

He didn't wait for permission. He rushed out the door. Raven's apartment wasn't far. He could be there in a few moments with his driving. In the corridor he increased his speed, now escalating along with his anxiety. By the time he reached the lift he was at a flat-out run.

With each rapid stride he became more and more convinced something bad had happened to his friend. The instinct, the sixth-sense, the intuition for danger born from years of experience echoed his flight. All those ethereal concepts magnified umpteen times when swirling within and mixed with the final ingredient – partner. Friend.

Working with Illya for several years, it had not taken Solo long to appreciate the skills intrinsic to the Russian. The talent was only the surface. Intelligence, droll wit, and the uncanny ability to break in anywhere and blow up anything made him invaluable. Along that shared road of missions – success and failure – grew a connection neither had expected. Yet, now, neither would trade what had grown into a tight friendship for anything.

Skidding through the neighborhood, Solo used the communicator to dial in Channel S – a private line Illya had managed to set-up for instant connections between them.

Aside from their value and usefulness as agents, that friendship gave them an edge. Like today. When he couldn't speed fast enough through the New York streets to get to Kuryakin. That sixth-sense from their link told him his friend needed help.

Crashing the door open, Solo had his Walther in hand when he rushed inside.

What - ? His partner shivering, cowering under the overhang of the bar? Illya's face pale, twisted with – agony? The blue polo shirt accentuating thin, shivering shoulders.

"Illya –!"

"Leave me alone!" The Russian was backing up the spiral stairs. Fleeing from him! In terror! "No – no - don't touch me! Please leave me alone! Don't touch me!"

He approached. Illya backed away. Then pushed him back! So hard Solo landed on the floor! Stunned, the senior agent had no thought to resist – too astounded to do anything but watch in horror as his friend scampered back to hide under the bar!

The shock was instantly vanquished by panic. Not the abject, nearly mindless dread reflected in his partner. Rather, the terrifying alarm of knowledge. Illya had been exposed to whatever fear-gas Marion Raven's father suffered before his death!

Where was Marion? He trotted up the stairs and searched the loft, then returned. Their charge nabbed, Illya left insensible.

Hunched in the corner, Illya Kuryakin shivered. And whimpered. And Napoleon Solo watched with an inner, fearful quaking of his own. Both of them were reacting to recent events; one with unreserved horror! The other - helpless shock! Illya's induced by some cruel, insidious drug. Solo's motivated by a secondary reaction to finding his friend cowering – petrified! Terrified of him – his partner! – his friend!

He knew he would find disaster - murder - something - at the apartment of the girl they were protecting. Solo had not expected the tragedy that met him: the forlorn, whimpering, shaking form of his partner huddling in a corner of the living room. Stunned, it took a few moments for Solo to galvanize into action.

Think! Think like the professional you are. Be an agent not a friend! Impossible! Reaction automatic, he pulled out his communicator and opened Channel D. What did he tell Waverly? Report. Marion gone. Holstering his Walther he stared at the poor man trying to crawl away into the wall.

"Is that some sort of animal I hear crying?"

What could he say to the Chief? Anything but the debilitating condition of his friend.

"Something like that."

Pocketing the communicator he stared at the unrecognizable being cringing and trembling underneath the bar. Solo didn't know enough about the long-term effects of this insidious gas. It had flipped his brilliant, quirky, talented partner into a mindless, moaning mass of phobia. He was not taking Agent Kuryakin, Section Two Number Two back to HQ like this!

Napoleon had searched the apartment, looked for the girl, given an initial report. Now, he confronted the most frightening sight of his life! His partner reduced to a quivering mass of helplessness!

He crouched to study the Russian. Then he approached slowly, carefully. His presence seemed to terrify the younger blond even worse.

Each time he approached Kuryakin pressed closer into the corner, trying to evade him, but there was nowhere to escape. Intellectually, Solo knew it was the drug. Illya was not really afraid of him. Not really. In the haze of hallucination, yes, he was, but that wasn't real.

So somehow Napoleon would ignore the moans of weakened fright and try to handle this with some kind of objectivity.

How could he break through? If this was anyone else, how would he handle it, he pondered as he bit his lip while studying his friend.

Every time he got close Illya grew more aggitated. The logical notion would be for him just to leave the poor Russian alone until the lab guys from Section Six and Section Eight examined him.

NO!

He could not sit by and watch his partner suffer - allow himself to suffer - in silence. He HAD to do – do - something!

"Illya." It was a soft whisper, a quivering sigh barely louder than the pounding of his rattling heart. "Illya, talk to me. What happened? You were -"

Kuryakin cried out again! That sent a crack straight through Solo's heart. He gulped down the question that was completely nonsensical to someone who's mind was filled with horror. He was sounding like one of the psyche guys they hated. That was no way to reach his friend and overcome the fear.

Okay, time to reevaluate. Forget the objectivity. Reaching Illya had to come from his heart. They were partners. They worked and practically lived together, in tandem, in unity. Illya would never fear him.

Then why did this incident terrify him to the core?

Why would he ever be afraid of Napoleon?

Irrelevant!

Save Illya. Just like every other danger they faced. Like any other rescue. Save his partner.

Edging as close as possible without scaring the blond further, Solo started talking. Quiet, disjointed words at first. Then a few whispered sentences. What they had done last week. What they planned the next time they were in London. Soon they would find time to try the new deli around the corner from headquarters. Was Illya asking Cindy in Section Four out to the Mask Club for drinks on Friday?

"Did you hear Ellen in Section Three rejected me?" he asked rhetorically, inching a bit closer. He was within touching distance now. Should he risk contact? "Did you ever meet her?"

He pressed two fingers onto the Russian's shaking arm. Illya yelped and flinched away from the touch. The victim tried to bolt, but there was nowhere to go. Literally cornered. Solo moved closer and placed a gentle palm onto the trembling hand, this time holding steady, firmly settled.

"Illya, it's me." Barely a quiet hush. "There is nothing to fear."

The blue eyes remained wild, but for the first time were directed at him, blue solidly locking onto his own.

"You're safe. I promise."

Solo carefully moved his hand up and around to the back of Kuryakin's neck. The look on the pale face was tragic, tears pooling in the eyes.

"Mmmm . . . ." Shivers quaked the thin body.

Napoleon gulped. "What?" he croaked. "What are you trying to tell me?"

"Mmmonsters."

It was a scraped, hoarse breath of abject pain wrapped in terror.

Certain he was trembling as much as the Russian, Solo managed not to close his eyes in anguish. Instead, he stared steadily at his friend with what he hoped was compassionate understanding. And more bravery than he felt. If this was treacherous territory for his fearful partner, it was just as frightening for him on the opposite side of this horrid breakdown.

"There are monsters?" His voice cracked, and he tried again. This time he tried to instill confidence, offer the strength that his friend so desperately needed. "There are no monsters," he whispered. "I'll make them stay away."

Illya's eyes widened, then closed. He shook his head so vigorously blond bangs flew about his forehead. "Mmmonsters."

"Illya," Napoleon called again, this time resolutely, solidly. He lightly squeezed the neck in his palm. "There are no monsters here."

The head shook in denial again, but less fervently. Progress.

He reached deep inside. "Trust me."

Solo thrust aside whatever barriers might remain of doubt or inhibitions about his own inability to bond with another. Not on a superficial level, but completely opening his heart. Did he have that in him? Real, unfettered emotion might be the only dart to pierce the fears barricading the Russian.

Could Napoleon reach down deep enough past his own shields to lay out complete honesty? To show his frightened partner there was nothing between them? Total trust. He demonstrated it enough in rescues, in late nights working, plotting, risking his life for the Russian. That was showy heroism. Work. Saving the world. Had he ever bared his soul for the sake of friendship?

No.

Not yet.

From the start of Kuryakin's arrival at NYHQ, there had been a guarded shield around the wary blond. It added to his mystique and the projection of dangerous aloofness. Not a façade. In their years together as colleagues, partners, friends – real, trusting friends – there was always a defensive perimeter around the younger agent.

Through persistent badgering, living together through life-and-death assignments, spending most of every day of every month in tandem, Solo had worn-thin the armor. They depended on each other completely. Then socially became friends. Or the other way around? He didn't know. At some point they became the most important person to the other and visa-versa.

Now, Napoleon had to make sure Illya knew that. For the well-being of each of them. Illya's mental and profession future – Napoleon's emotional forecast – dangled on pulling his friend out of the pit of anguish and back on solid ground.

He spoke quietly, but with unyielding tenacity and confidence. As if their lives depended on the phrase. And they did. "Trust me."

Eyes still squeezed shut, with curled fingers, Illya rapped his knuckles on his head. "Mmmonsters. Hhhere." With a shivering hand he tapped Solo's fingers. "You - take - monsters . . . ."

This wasn't working. He was only offering words against imagined visions of inner demons. So what could he possibly do? Make sure Illya believed in him more than the spectres wafting around in his mind.

"Open your eyes and look at me."

Illya stubbornly shook his head.

"I promise there are no more monsters here. Trust me, tovarich."

Kuryakin's grip clutched onto his wrist with desperate, painful force, fingernails digging into flesh. That was going to leave a mark!

He flinched, pressing his lips together to not make a sound. Forcing a positive, assertive expression onto his face, he repeated his command. "Trust me, Illya. I won't let anything hurt you. Open your eyes. You'll see the monsters are afraid of YOU!"

The blond head shook again, but it was a timid, half-hearted resistance. The verbal yelps and cries had stopped. No more trembling. Tension was easing from the taut shoulders. The death-grip on Napoleon's wrist relaxed to a secure hold.

After long moments, the blue eyes blinked open. Squinting, Kuryakin cast a wary, quick glance at Solo, then the lids closed again. The gaze was fleeting and frightened, like a cornered rabbit, but with a gulp of a breath he steadied himself and lifted the lids, keeping his eyes on Solo. As if he was afraid to look anywhere else, but at his partner.

Ignoring the tears burning his eyes, Solo took a breath and offered a smile he hoped was strong. He tried to inject all the confidence he could into his tone and expression.

"See. You're safe, Illya. The monsters have gone away not to return, old friend." He pressed a palm over Kuryakin's eyes. When he drew it away Kuryakin was staring at his fist. He opened his palm and fluttered his fingers, as if setting something free. "No more. No more monsters. I promise."

Tentative. A whisper. "No monsters."

A smile of relief and affection sprung naturally. Napoleon blew out a covert breath. "They all ran away. They were afraid of you."

A ghost of a grin flitted on the wan face. "Afraid of you."

Chuckling, the senior agent felt secure his friend was coming out of the nightmare.

Nodding, Illya allowed the weight of his head to lean on Solo's hand.

"No more monsters," Solo whispered tightly. "Not today, anyway, tovarich."

III

It had been a long time since he had been granted a weekend off! Illya knew he could partially thank Marion Raven. Mr. Waverly had a soft spot for her – must be because they were both British! When she requested him to join her, Waverly had agreed! And no one called him in for any emergencies, or assignments for two days!

Monday morning at UNCLE HQ was like any other corporation. Most agents were busy at work when he arrived just slightly late. Napoleon must have come in early. The senior Section Two operative had not been home this morning. And thankfully, Napoleon had managed to not call him! He would owe the American. And Napoleon would make sure he paid the price. It was worth it.

Marion was beautiful, intelligent, fun and passionate. A good match for Illya. And even better, not interested in any kind of commitment! Unlike most of his dates, Marion had her own independent plans and did not want to coddle, possess or capture him.

In his youth he had learned most people wanted something. Used you. His aloof shell prevented most from getting close enough to affect him on any emotional level. Like Solo, he kept his relationships with women superficial. No strings. No expectations. Mostly, no second dates. It made life easier, free and uncomplicated. That was why he wore the gold wedding band on his left hand. Fake out for those women wanting more than he was willing to give.

'He who has no binding runs unfettered through the forest.' Old Gypsy saying.

That philosophy was part of his past. There was a similar adage about running alone, but in the last few years he ignored the old saying. He was not interested in alone anymore. UNCLE had taught him a fine line of definition between lone (solo! ha!) and lonely. More appropriate would be some wise quote about sharing the load.

Survival in his youth depended upon such wisdom.

This morning Miss Raven and he had gone their separate ways – he to HQ, Marion to Barcelona. Would they meet up again? She might call him in the future. He might call her. Either way, they enjoyed a few days of companionship and for both of them that was enough.

Entering Napoleon's office, he was surprised it was empty. Checking the desk, he noted there was no report or any other papers. The usual sign the neat, ex-Navy agent had literally cleared the decks. Closing out the old and ready for the new.

Uninterested in hunting down his partner in the warrens of HQ, he sat on the sofa and pulled out his fake cigarette case/communicator. Hailing Channel S, he waited only a moment before the American responded to their private link. It was a frequency they used sparingly, yet this morning he felt too lazy to not utilize a short-cut.

"Hello," came the deep, rather tired voice of Solo. "Back from your fun weekend?"

"Yes. I'm in your office. Where are you?"

"Key West. Having the Devil's own time tracing Gervaise Ravel."

Unaccountably irritated, Illya felt left out. His partner was on the other side of the coast chasing their enemy! The evil woman who tried to kill Marion, his partner and him! Who sent the fear-gas and turned him into a puddle of shameful mush!

"You're on your own! Why didn't you call me?"

There was a spurt of a laugh. "I let you have a whole weekend off with a gorgeous blond and you're chastise me?"

"Yes." Churlish. "Thank you, by the way. But – yes! You should have told me what you were doing!"

It made sense to him. While his time with Marion was excellent, he felt cheated out of revenge. Balancing scales – getting even – retribution – all Russian concepts.

There was another irritation beyond vengeance or justice. His partner was out there alone trying to nab the enemy.

Again, not fair.

Illya owed his partner. For bringing him out of the morass of fear and back to sanity. He owed Napoleon for allowing him time off and days of relaxation and charming companionship after the stress of this last mission.

He owed Solo for so much. For being a friend.

"Look, tovarich, we'll take this up when I get back. I'm recommending to Waverly we call off this wild goose chase. For now."

Somewhat appeased, he promised a fine night out when Solo returned. His treat.

"I accept."

"Of course," Kuryakin retorted with a usual dig at his partner's typical state of empty wallet. "You waste your money on frivolities, Mr. Solo."

"Well, if you're going to keep insulting me I'll sign off. I'll let you know when I'm coming back."

Breaking the connection, Kuryakin sat in the office for a time, reflecting on the slight ease of tension. He felt better having heard from his partner. Chastising him. Assuring he was safe.

After all, there were so many monsters out there. His friend had shown the way again as he had so many times before. They had to protect each other from all kinds of monsters.

THE END