THE TURKEY DAY AFFAIR

by

GM

"Happy Thanksgiving."

The tone belayed the words and had nothing remotely hinting at cheery anything. Glancing at the clock, Illya Kuryakin realized it was indeed after midnight. Just finishing up the paperwork on their near debacle of their last assignment, he was in no mood for his friend's Western culture sentimentality.

Grunting a "hmmm," he completed the tedious details of his report.

"So, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?"

Illya glanced up from the form he scribbled his igniture on and lowered his glasses to bring Napoleon Solo into sharper focus. Partners for a few years now, the Russian could read his colleague with incredible accuracy. He could tell by the tone of voice that Napoleon was more than merely curious. This inquiry was something beyond the chit-chat the American engaged in when bored.

While Kuryakin evaluated the question he analyzed his response. In years past, he would have been suspicious - that this was a devious ploy by an American to pull him into some kind of capitalistic trick. Old Soviet suspicions and prejudices did not die easily, and for his first months in England, then New York, he had been overly critical and guarded against Western associates. Partnered with the convivial Solo, he grew even more wary. Could any professional spy really be that obvious and friendly? He was amazed Solo had such a vaulted reputation with UNCLE operatives.

More missions, more daily life at the office, gave him an understanding of the quixotic nature of his new associate. Solo used his unorthodox, disarming openness, his charm and gregariousness, as assets. They were not only part of his nature, they were tools he utilized time and again to lull the enemy off guard, then take them down in various and amazing methods and situations.

Instead of contempt and superiority, the Russian came to respect and - yes - like - his partner. Despite his defenses, he came to rely on this sometimes complicated American, whom he now unhesitatingly called his friend.

Knowing there was an ulterior motive, Kuryakin nonetheless took the bait.

"Doing?"

"You know, for Thanksgiving."

"Working."

"Mmmm," Solo nodded.

Waiting for more with amused anticipation - knowing he was being dragged into something - he accepted his role in the scenario. Typically, Solo tempted him with an innocuous bit of lure that hooked his natural curiosity. These games they played were part of the continually fresh aspects of their partnership and provided more amusement than Kuryakin would ever admit.

"What?"

Solo shrugged and leaned back from the desk. Further loosening his tie, he stretched and yawned. He made a show of rolling up his already folded-back sleeves. Stalling. For dramatic effect or summoning courage?

"I know we're working," the American admitted with a hint of exasperation.

A policy Solo had held over from the last leader of Section Two. Married operatives, or those with family close by, had the holiday off when possible. Yet another example of the sentimentality within Solo. A trait Illya initially thought of as a weakness, but came to appreciate when it was directed at him as a byproduct of friendship.

The current assignment promised to keep them busy for at least several days. Tracking a paper trail from a THRUSH front - a florist shop – prosaic! - in Toronto - to an agricultural conglomerate in Ottawa. Then westward in the wilds of Canada. From there the trail went cold. Trying to connect dots had taken most of Tuesday afternoon and all of the night into Wednesday. Since their hasty meals of sandwiches and gallons of coffee from the cafeteria, they had shed their jackets, literally and figuratively rolled up their sleeves, and committed to staying at the search until they found the new THRUSH base that harbored a threat to North American.

Solo rubbed his face. "I meant what are you doing for Thanksgiving dinner?"

Illya chose to play obtuse. "Eating."

Solo threw a pencil at him and chuckled. "You know what I mean."

Living in America, ignoring holidays and festivities here became incredibly difficult. Residing in New York, Illya could not avoid Thanksgiving, Macy's and the long weekend that marked the start of the holiday shopping season. Teamed with this particular Yank, Kuryakin would never be allowed to forget or disregard any kind of American tradition. And not even as a death bed confession would he reveal that he had come to cherish the effort Solo made to include him in these ridiculous rituals. Not that he liked Thanksgiving any more than he liked baseball or Dodger dogs, but it was part of the fabric of Solo that made him so uniquely Napoleon. Illya secretly acknowledged he would never want it any other way.

Perversely teasing, Illya drew it out. "Why are my plans important to you? I am sure you are already booked with a dozen different offers from female operatives. All dying to show off their domestic skills for you, under the most traditional of circumstances."

Solo shook his head. "Ha, ha. As a matter of fact, Mr. K, you still don't quite have the bead on the locals."

Another lecture from the know-it-all-Solo about women? Illya hid his momentary irritation.

"You only get invited home if the girl is serious about introducing you to the family. And if you're one of the drifting singles in the big city, you don't want to invite some casual acquaintance who might dump you the next day. And since I have a reputation for one-night-stands, you can understand why I have no date for Thursday – later today."

Glancing up with yet another new respect for his partner's skillful insight, he lowered his glasses. "Really?"

"Really." A Cheshire grin appeared and the brown eyes twinkled. "I bet you were wondering why that cute little redhead in Section Five didn't ask you over for tonight, huh?"

Kuryakin smirked, then turned away, not giving his friend the satisfaction of knowing that was exactly what he thought.

The intercom buzzed and Solo snapped it on, accepting a call from an agent in their Vancouver BC office. He reported the possible discovery of a THRUSH base! The end of the trail they had been following! Could some agents come help?

Kuryakin was already tidying the mass of paper on his desk. He knew what was coming next. From Solo's long-suffering expression it was easy to guess what team of agents would be flying out to western Canada this early AM.

Napoleon told the operative they would be joining him as soon as they could get a flight. After closing the connection he turned to his partner. "Pack your warm coat," he advised as he came to his feet and rolled down his sleeves.

"Napoleon, Canada is nothing compared to Russia."

"Oh, joy," Solo quipped, "More stories about Mother Russia and the bitter cold."

Naturally stepping into the opening his friend had so carelessly left him, Kuryakin stared with a straight face. "Yes. Did I ever tell you of the time when I lived with the gypsies when we passed through the Black Forest? There was a bear, you see . . . ."

The only visible evidence that daylight lingered was the weak grey wash in the eastern sky. The clouds were low and dark, intermittently showering the airport windows with snow and sleet. Travel under such conditions was never pleasant, but Solo's disagreeable attitude made this seige even worse.

Inaction gnawed at their nerves. Usually Kuryakin was the one pacing and impatient, but this time the Russian had settled into a pose of dejected acceptance. The assignment proved miserable; he suffered in morose silence occasionally broken by his acrid grievances to his partner. It really was no fun when his friend flung back comments just as irritable. Napoleon was not being his usually glib self, cracking corny jokes, eyeing girls, or making absurd comments to get a rise out of the Russian. In other words, Napoleon was not playing his part in their usual game for some reason. The disparagement in routine further served to aggravate Illya. Since there was nothing he could do about the abominable weather, when they finally connected with the THRUSH louts causing this discomfort, he was going to have some fun taking them out.

"It could be worse."

Solo turned a baleful eye at his friend.

"We could be in the Yukon."

This did elicit a smirk from the American. "Okay, it could be worse. Stranded in the airport in Calgary isn't much better."

While catching a connecting flight to the coast, an impenetrable storm front grounded all flights in Canada's western provinces. Thursday evening in a chill airport was not something to look forward to under any circumstances. That this was a special holiday left Solo in a disagreeable mood. While Illya didn't participate in American celebrations, he was sorry his friend would be missing out on such an important sentimental celebration as Thanksgiving.

Commenting he was going for more coffee, Kuryakin ambled away and strolled the concourse. He soon found a cafeteria serving various food items. None looked particularly appealing, but he was hungry, and in the strained conditions this would have to do.

Arms burdened with goods, he quietly came up behind his partner. "Sorry there is no cranberry sauce, but Happy Thanksgiving, Napoleon."

Solo turned around and glanced at the pathetic assortment of packaged sandwiches, soda pop, macaroni salad and bags of chips. Helpfully taking some of it, he smiled and steered them over to some empty seats.

"Thanks." Once settled, he hesitated to open the plastic wrap.

Illya, already munching on his food, paused. "What?"

"Well, this isn't what I had in mind for your Thanksgiving this year. It's the first time since we've been partners that we could – well - " At the unreadable expression on the Russian's face, he concentrated on unwrapping the sandwich. "I was going to treat you to something a lot better. Try and show you what this holiday is all about."

Visions of warm, roasted turkey with all the trimmings came to mind; Norman Rockwellian apparitions Illya had seen in commercials and advertisements. He never expected to experience such a thing himself, and was surprised Napoleon might have imagined it for him. Or thought that he wanted it.

"I'm sure it is a disappointment to not have the old-fashioned spread while you watch football or the Macy's parade."

Napoleon laughed while he picked at his macaroni salad. "No. I mean, no, I'm not used to that. I was thinking of taking you to some nice restaurant and having a decent turkey dinner. Show you that this is something good. A nice reason for a celebration."

The sentimentality did not surprise the Russian. He had noted that as an unusual chink in the Solo armor which surfaced at odd moments in their adventures. Such as allowing agents with families to have time off for some occasions. And there had been that exchange of gifts at Christmas . . . .

Intrigued, even touched at the show of friendship that had been proposed, save for Fate, he inquired, "You did not want a return to your childhood holiday traditions?"

"No," he flatly assured.

Surprised to discover more new intelligence about Solo, Illya learned his friend did not long for observing the holiday out of fond recollections. His childhood memories of holidays were not conventional. Most of the time he was not even at a home, but in a boarding school or overseas.

Solo stabbed at the defensless macaroni, pushing it around the plastic container. "No, I thought, you know, partnership. We're usually at opposite ends of the globe and this year we're not." He shrugged. "I just thought it would be a special – uh – treat, I guess."

"Would you settle for unforgettable?" Illya wryly suggested, giving a nod toward the cascading snow outside.

He would never admit to the pang of emotionalism that washed over him. Eating cold, mediocre food, sitting in a chill airport amidst a blizzard. Knowing there was one person in the world who cared about him enough to want to include him in such inconsequential things as holidays and turkey dinners.

Studying the meal, Solo ruefully admitted, "It is unforgettable, certainly. Well, I'll try again next year!" He lifted up a Coca-cola bottle in a toast. "At least we're spending it together. Happy turkey sandwich day, partner."

If this was a new tradition for both of them, he appreciated the thought. Perhaps that was more important than the dinner and all the trimmings. Although, considering their fare, he would happily indulge in the sumptuous, traditional feast!

Clicking his bottle to his partner's, Illya nodded. "Happy Thanksgiving, Napoleon."

THE END