Alternate Beginnings

Fandom: The Man from U.N.C.L.E.

Category: gen

Rating: G

Word Count: 426

 

Napoleon leaned down, ostentatiously to allow the pretty receptionist to pin his badge in place. She returned his smile demurely.

“I’ve been waiting for you all my life, Miss Rogers,” Napoleon tried to capture her fingers, but she eluded his grasp.

“Mr. Solo, Mr. Waverly is waiting for you. And the file on the Sarsaparilla Affair.”

“I was just going to fetch it from my office…” With a regretful sigh, Napoleon walked backward toward the door. It opened automatically behind him and then swallowed him as he blew her a kiss.

The halls of UNCLE were the same as ever, young agents walking briskly about their business, slender secretaries swaying through the silently opening doors; Napoleon walked confidently, moving along with the smooth, industrious activity until he reached his office. The door failed to open for him, and as he was watching Miss Chan over his shoulder, he walked right into the panel with a thump.

“Hey!”

The doors sprang open belatedly, and Napoleon frowned into the room.

There was a man in his office. A few inches shorter than himself, and dressed in a nondescript black suit with a short cap of fair hair. He was pointing a strange-looking gizmo at the door which was emitting a low humming noise.

He peered at Napoleon through tinted glasses and his round face broke into a shy smile. “Mr. Solo, I presume? Sorry about the door… I was experimenting with a little something that Section 8 has been working on. Magnetically seals doors with the touch of a button. They asked me to try it out.” His accent contained elements of both Russia and England.

“Well,” Napoleon smiled and gingerly patted his nose, “you can tell them that it works.” He looked the man over from shoes to wheaten locks. “You are the new agent I’ve heard about. Kuryakin.”

“Illya Kuryakin, Mr. Solo.” He accepted the offered handshake and executed a short bow over their joined hands. “At your service.” He frowned slightly, leaning in close to Napoleon’s face. “Was it that way before you ran into the door?”

“What?” Napoleon pulled himself back slightly, hand going to his nose self-conscious. “Was it what way — ?”

“Nothing. It looks… fine. Better than your photos.” Illya flicked the button on his gizmo again, and the door slid open. “Mr. Waverly is expecting us…”

“Coming.” Napoleon circled his desk to collect the Sarsaparilla file, bending down to check his reflection on the polished brass lamp. “Better?” He muttered, then he smiled after Kuryakin, tossing his head. “Very funny, comrade.”

 

 

 

 

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