paulah's note: Sorry it's been awhile and that this is kind of short. I am working full time and doing school full time and I have very little time for anything else right now. Once I get used to the time factor I'm sure I'll have a bit more time to work on things. In the meantime, here's this part of the story.
Russia, 1944- Firing Range
The rifle had felt heavy and awkward in his arms. It was too big for a boy his age and size but he had to use it.
Ivan had smiled at the sight of the little boy, compared to his larger frame, trying to balance the gun and shoot straight. "Don't fight the gun. Relax and feel the balance."
All Illya could think about was the numb bruises on his back and shoulders from where the riding crop stung as it emphasized Sarkov's lecture. The words haunted him. The threats about what he would do to poor shots in his training program. The faces of the boys who started out with Illya and one by one disappeared from the barracks. He was the only one left. He shuddered to consider what happened to them.
It didn't matter that Illya was one of the best with hand guns. If he couldn't master the rifles as well, he hated to think of what could happen to him. Was it any worse than what had happened already?
Ivan grabbed his arm and shook him to get his attention. Pain from the beatings he had suffered made Illya stiffen. It was then Ivan realized just how bad it was for Illya. He let go. Offering sympathy was out of the question because he could see how Illya silently swallowed his humanity and carried on.
"Look. I can teach you to become the best," Ivan said. "Trust me."
Illya eyed him skeptically. "Trust is earned. To give it freely will get me killed."
Ivan's eyebrows shot up. Such a paranoid attitude from one so young. He was right, of course, but a boy his age shouldn't figure it out for a few more years yet. Even in the Soviet Union. He put a stern frown on his face. "The Motherland discourages such pessimism in Her children." Such a laughable idea but he would be expected to set his young charge straight or face his own punishment.
"Yet She encourages pragmatism. A pretty conundrum, is it not?"
Illya eyed him, his stare cold and shuttered, though not completely emotionless. The boy had a good grasp on keeping his feelings out of his expression but he was not yet perfect. Ivan couldn't quite put his finger on exactly what peeked out of their icy blue depths-Fear? Disgust? Derision? A combination of all?-but he knew the boy had more learning to do in that department.
Even so, it was still enough to make Ivan's skin crawl. Too young. The boy was too young for all this. But . . . . He had his orders and he would carry them out despite his disapproval of how the State was using and abusing this boy.
Ivan cleared his throat in discomfort. The kid brought out feelings of a big brother in him even as Illya gave Ivan the willies. "Perhaps we should leave the philosophy to the philosophers. We are soldiers. Our role is to be able to shoot a rifle without killing a comrade in the process. I'm here to teach you how to do that."
Illya shifted the rifle in his hands and brought it up to aim at the target set up on the range. "I'm ready."
Ivan was amazed to find out just how ready he was. By the end of the first lesson the boy shot the rifle better than most of the cadets, including the older ones that were ready to graduate into their first postings with the KGB. "You have shot a gun before
Eventually Ivan did earn the boy's trust. They even became friends, or as much so as possible under the circumstances. Ivan quickly learned Illya possessed exceptional intelligence, a dry wit, and a devastatingly sarcastic tongue. Talented at anything he set his mind to, Ivan marveled at how quickly the boy picked up new abilities, languages, and skills. It was a couple of years worth of friendship before he found out why Illya was such a quick study.
"I still find it hard to believe you'd never shot a rifle before the first day I met you," he'd said to his friend one night over glasses of vodka Illya had snuck into the barracks. Ivan was slated to leave for his first posting the following day and Illya insisted they celebrate his success.
Illya snorted, a wry smile on his face as he poured more vodka into their respective glasses. "Never underestimate the threat of a bullet in the head as a motivator."
Ivan paused, his glass halfway to his lips. "What are you talking about?"
A dark blond eyebrow rose. "Sarkov's training technique." He grimaced. "At least with me. Did he not instruct you on it?"
Ivan set his glass down on the table, the vodka all but forgotten. "I never dealt with Comrade Sarkov. Comrade Andreov commissioned me to train you in rifles. He never gave me any instructions aside from, 'teach him how to shoot.'"
"Ah!" Illya downed his drink and poured another. "That explains it, then. I always wondered why you never employed Sarkov's favorite training tool."
"What training tool?" Ivan somehow knew he wasn't going to like the answer. Had to ask, though.
Illya's glass hovered at his lips for a second before he downed the contents and poured yet more vodka into it. His emotional control had improved dramatically over the time Ivan knew him. His face no longer revealed what he was thinking or feeling. The signs were there, though, for those who knew how to look for them. Ivan was one of only two who knew. Andreov was the other.
For all his nonchalance Ivan could tell Illya didn't care for the direction of the conversation. Normally his taciturn friend would shut down the subject at this point. Ivan was rather surprised when he didn't.
Illya shrugged again, a sure sign he was not feeling as laid back and relaxed as he appeared. "Sarkov trained me in handguns. He would hold a gun to my head and tell me he would put a bullet in my brain if I missed a shot."
Appalled as he was at the notion, Ivan tried to lighten the mood a little. "Obviously he wasn't serious. I'm sure you missed at least once."
Illya's laugh held no humor but a world of bitterness. "He lied, of course. He would shoot me in the leg or the arm when I missed. Flesh wounds. Nothing that would cause any real damaged." He tossed yet another shot of vodka down his throat. "If he'd killed me, it would have wasted all the money the State spent on training me to that point. Cheaper to have a doctor on standby who would dig the bullet out and bandage me up. The training would resume as though nothing happened. As far as I was concerned, a bullet in the leg was as undesirable as a bullet in the head."
"You never miss," Ivan mused, understanding now why Illya excelled at everything he did.
"I never miss," Illya had agreed, finishing off the bottle of vodka.
New York, 1970
Ivan never saw Illya again. Until now. He'd looked for the younger man once he'd managed a posting in Moscow, but Illya had all but disappeared. No one would speak of him. Everyone acted as though the studious young man never existed.
Ivan had heard whispers in the KGB hallways about Illya's stint as a prostitute. He had wondered why everyone reacted so strongly to the news. Although homosexuality was considered an offense worthy of the absolute worst punishments in the Soviet Union, it was not unusual for a KGB agent to take on the role of a homosexual in order to further the State's goals and agendas. Why should this be different? Everything he'd heard suggested Illya acted in the role as part of a KGB operation. He couldn't understand the problem.
Unless, of course, someone discovered Illya really was homosexual. Ivan would not be surprised if Illya did have such proclivities. Not that the young blond man had ever been indiscreet. His apparent total lack of interest in women could suggest such a thing, but he had an equal lack of interest in men. So what was it about the man that made Ivan think that perhaps the rumors had been right?
He gave himself a mental shrug. It didn't matter. Since his friend had never approached him with a sexual proposition-and Ivan believed he never would-such an idea didn't bother him. Personally, he didn't care what someone did in their bedroom as long as they didn't force him, Ivan, to participate against his will.
How ironic to meet his young friend again in America of all places. He knew he should be wary of suddenly seeing his old friend here but he was so happy to see his friend still alive he couldn't control his outburst. Besides, Sarkov had told him in no uncertain terms that Illya Kuryakin was no longer with the KGB. Sarkov refused to give him more information, but Ivan felt compelled to believe him. The former Colonel-who had found himself demoted to a far lesser rank because of the fiasco in Italy-had seemed genuinely angry and disgusted. Ivan had no reason to believe the man lied about Illya's change in status. Illya was no longer KGB so there was nothing to worry about. Well, not much.
Illya jumped up, a huge smile on his face. "Ivan! How nice you recognize your old friend, Dima!" he gushed in Russian.
Ivan was shocked when the blond threw his arms around him and gave him sloppy kisses on both cheeks in a most un-Illya Kuryakin way.
"You're going to get me killed!" he added in Russian, his tone suggesting he was giving Ivan a happy greeting even as his fleeting expression told him it was a dire warning. Now THAT was more like the Illya he knew.
Dima? That could only mean Illya was undercover, which meant his friend was still KGB. Ivan returned the greeting, covering his surprise smoothly. So Sarkov lied about that? His faith in his own abilities to read people and catch lies took a huge beating.
"Dima!" he said, following Illya's lead. "It is good to see you!" He made a show of looking around. "But I am rather busy now. Perhaps we could talk later?"
Illya's eyes said an emphatic, "NO!" but his mouth said, "We can have lunch one day and catch up."
Ivan took the hint. "Perhaps. I am very busy, though. It was good seeing you again."
Illya's relief was palpable, at least to Ivan. From the bored expression on Illya's companion's face, he didn't see a thing wrong with it.
Ivan nodded at them and went back to running his restaurant/bar. As he walked away he couldn't shake the feeling things were not as they seemed. For his own protection-and most assuredly for his curiosity-he vowed to get to the bottom of the mystery of Illya Kuryakin.
Javier wondered why Solo wanted him to report on his findings in person. When he'd tried to call it in, Lisa, Waverly's secretary-Solo's for the moment-told Javier the acting Number 1 of Section 1 commanded a personal audience.
This just couldn't be good. If Solo didn't have such a reputation as a ladies' man, Javier would be concerned the man was jealous of the fact Javier had taken Illya to bed. Although, some men acted like they liked women just so people wouldn't realize they were homosexual.
Javier shook his head at the absurd idea. That just couldn't be the case. Those men usually couldn't perform with the women they dated. From everything he heard, Solo performed just fine. He thought about THAT for a second before shaking the alluring image from his mind. Illya was more Javier's type, but he could fantasize about any good looking man.
He entered headquarters through Del Floria, picked up his visiting agent's badge, and trudged to Solo's office. He really wasn't looking forward to this.
Napoleon looked forward to his upcoming meeting with Ponce. He wanted to watch the man squirm like the Puerto Rican worm he was. Napoleon couldn't stand the guy. More, he couldn't understand what Illya saw in the man that he didn't see in his partner. How had Javier lured Illya to his bed at a time the Russian managed to be completely immune to Napoleon's charms and absolutely refused to make love with him again?
Napoleon felt frustrated. Upset. Enraged. He didn't want to take out his feelings on Illya for fear of pushing his partner away even more, but he could certainly take it out on his present lover.
A predatory grin crossed Napoleon's face as he thought about how he would go about this. The intercom buzzed at that moment. He toggled it on. "Yes, Lisa?"
"Mr. Ponce is here to see you as you asked," she said airily. Her voice-professional edged with seduction-made him smile. Maybe he should ask her out on a date soon. Illya would hate that. He didn't care for Lisa.
"Send him in, Lisa," Napoleon said and toggled off. He wiped the expectant grin off his face and had a neutral expression plastered on by the time Ponce entered the office and sat down. In Illya's chair, Napoleon noted sourly.
"You asked to see me, Mr. Solo?" Javier asked, his expression and tone showing only respect.
Napoleon knew it for the lie it was. Ponce was a very good agent, after all. "I wanted to get your report on your findings from the campus admin building."
The question of, "Why?" burned brightly in Ponce's eyes but he didn't articulate it. "Yes, sir," he said instead. "I looked into the university's funding and donations list. As expected, there were a number of the usual wealthy philanthropists. Most of them are legitimate. Phillip Austin, Johnny Austin's father, was on the list. However, it showed him making the donation not on his behalf, but on that of Swiftwings Laboratories. They do drug research and development. I did some checking and found we've suspected the company to be a front for THRUSH, even though we haven't found absolute proof. I'd say we do now."
Napoleon nodded, impressed with Ponce's thoroughness and professionalism despite himself. He pictured the Puerto Rican naked and sweating over an equally naked Illya and his positive feelings towards the man disappeared. "What about Mr. Kuryakin?" he asked in a hard tone.
Ponce blinked in obvious confusion. "Erm, he wasn't there."
Napoleon sneered at him. "Yes, I know that. You are supposed to be his backup, however. You should be aware of where he is at all times. What was he doing while you were doing all this research?"
Ponce's eyes narrowed but his voice remained even. "He was taking Johnny out to lunch in order to see what he might find out from him. Illya . . . Mr. Kuryakin," he corrected with a quick glance at Napoleon's face. "Mr. Kuryakin believes Johnny is recruiting a new generation of THRUSH scientists."
Anger surged through Napoleon's veins. "And you just let him go by himself?"
Ponce's mouth quirked in disgust. "He's a trained agent. One of the best. You should know that better than anyone," he spat. "I'm sure he can handle one teenaged boy. If he needs help, all he has to do is call me and I'm there. You're going to have to trust me on this, sir." His emphasis on the 'sir' suggested he didn't think Napoleon deserved the honorific. "Of course, that will be difficult to do quickly if I'm here instead of where I'm supposed to be."
Napoleon grit his teeth, his anger starting to get the best of him. "I should write you up for insubordination," he bit out.
"Then do it and let me get out of here," Ponce demanded. "I have to get back to the university in case Illya DOES need me."
Napoleon considered firing the man on the spot and taking over as Illya's backup. He had full authority while Waverly was away. He'd have to justify his actions to the Old Man but was sure he could do so easily. Unfortunately, he couldn't work the big desk and be a good backup for Illya at the same time. Much as he hated to admit it, Ponce was right. Napoleon should have just taken his report over the communicator instead of pulling him away from where he could respond quickly to a distress call from Illya rather than here. He scowled. "Get the hell out of here," he snarled.
Ponce jumped to his feet and stalked for the door.
"Ponce," Napoleon snapped before the man could escape the office.
The Puerto Rican turned to him and waited.
"If it comes down to a choice between his life or yours, I expect you to throw yours down for him."
Ponce's eyebrows rose. "Of course. Illya deserves nothing less from me. I tend to be very protective of my very special friends." He spun on his heel and left before Napoleon could say anything else.
Napoleon sat at Waverly's desk-as restrictive a prison as any THRUSH cell-and seethed over the last words Ponce threw at him. The man must have figured out just what kind of interest Napoleon had in Illya. He would have to watch himself better around the Puerto Rican agent. At least while he was watching Illya's back. Once this mission was over, Napoleon would see to it that Javier Ponce never had the chance to fuck Illya ever again.