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

Pairing: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin

Category: gen

Rating: G

Word Count: 1,508

Notes: Written for the Poetry Table Prompt – “orange”

 

 

“A Petition” by Amy Lowell

I pray to be the tool which to your hand
Long use has shaped and molded till it be
Apt for your need, and, unconsideringly,
You take it for its service. I demand
To be forgotten in the woven strand
Which grows the multicolored tapestry
Of your bright life, and through its tissues lie
A hidden, strong, sustaining, gray-toned band.
I wish to dwell around your daylight dreams,
The railing to the stairway of the clouds,
To guard your steps securely up, where streams
A faery moonshine washing pale the crowds
Of pointed stars. Remember not whereby
You mount, protected, to the far-flung sky.

 

“You work well together.”

Napoleon looked up from the file he had been studying.  His superior was occupied with filling his pipe from the humidor at his elbow, not looking to see any reaction.  “Yes sir, we do.” 

He laid the folder down and watched Mr. Waverly tamp the tobacco into place.  It was a ritual he had observed many times.  He knew that though his superior seemed entirely preoccupied, he was in fact using the seeming distraction to set up a pronouncement of some import.

It was a technique he knew well.  He’d watched it used on others.  His boss was proficient at getting what he wanted.  This was one of the ways he had of gauging the effect his requests had on the agents in his service, this lulling into unsuspecting quiet.  Napoleon was rarely surprised by his superior, was only surprised how few of his fellow agents had caught on.  He leaned back in his seat, right leg crossed over left, hands relaxed, and waited.

Their first mission together had been a bit of an accident.  Waverly had sent them out on separate affairs and in the way that THRUSH was usually a web of interconnected lies and schemes, they ended up stumbling over one another, rather literally.  In a cramped basement cell where their captors thought they would be stuck until their manufactured Doomsday, Napoleon and the new guy transferred from the lab had planned and executed a perfect escape. 

The paperwork had been a nightmare, overlapping facts and suppositions, interconnected leads and THRUSH red herrings.  They finally gave up trying to sort it and holed up in Napoleon’s office with several pots of hot coffee and wrote a detailed joint report.  Waverly had seemed pleased enough with the outcome, Doomsday averted and several top THRUSH agents in custody.

The popping sound of the humidor lid closing brought Napoleon back to the present.

“He did well at Survival School.  Few better.”

“True enough,” Napoleon agreed.  In fact, Napoleon knew that he was one of those few, at least in some areas. 

Their second affair was actually a joint assignment, that time going in together and neither of them getting captured.  There were no beatings or torture sessions, no injuries or escapes needing created on the spur of the moment.  There had only been a smooth understanding of expectations and execution of plans.  It had been a refreshing change from the usual dust up with THRUSH. 

The scratch of a match returned Napoleon from those memories and he watched as Alexander Waverly nursed the bowl of tobacco into flame.

“He’s a trained assassin.”

“As are we all,” Napoleon said.  He remembered the way the other agent had dispatched the would be kidnappers on one of the protection details they had worked.  The man could shut out distraction and focus on the task at hand like no other Napoleon had met.  Bullets flying and innocents screaming, agents falling and bleeding himself from a ricochet, he had held steady and been exactly where Napoleon needed him.  And the leader of a small Middle Eastern protectorate had been kept safe and grateful to the organization that had been entrusted with his care.

“He’ll make a fine number two.”  Waverly puffed on the lit pipe and looked up at last, taking in the relaxed posture of his Chief Enforcement Agent.

Alexander watched the quiet man across the desk from him.  He tried to discern a reaction, but all he was given was the faintest quirk at the corner of Napoleon’s mouth.  It might have been the start of a smile or just as easily the suppression of a frown, but the quickest flash of satisfaction in his top agent’s eyes gave him the only hint the was going to get.  This was why he rarely played chess against his own number two, the man gave away only what was going to get him what he wanted.  While Alexander admired that trait, and was pleased to exploit it in his subordinate, he did not often choose to have that cunning aimed at himself.  He much preferred to wind up his CEA and point him at the agents opposed to law and order that they were sworn to thwart.  It virtually always got him what he wanted.

“You’ve read his full file.”

“Front to back, several times.”

“Do you anticipate any issues?”

“There will be no problems.”

Alexander saw that Napoleon’s relaxed posture never wavered, his dark eyes remaining steady, watchful.  He allowed himself some satisfaction at that. 

“It’s been nearly a year since you had a steady partner.”

“There are a lot of agents in Section Two.  I wanted to be sure I gave them all a fair shake.”

“And did you?”

“Yes.”  And he had, in fact he made certain that he had taken every unpartnered agent under his command in Section Two on several missions.  But it was true that he had shown a marked preference for only a handful.  That number was slowly dwindling.  Waverly had to be aware of it, he received all the reports.  His choice had to be clear to anyone paying the slightest attention.

“We have some delicate projects in progress in the labs, his final transfer will therefore be delayed several weeks.  A promotion on top of that may cause a few hard feelings.”  Alexander continued to nurse the pipe along, drawing the fragrant smoke out and studying it as if it were a vision from the oracle at Delphi. 

“I don’t think so, he has proven himself.  He is respected for his skills and has shown where his loyalties are, I don’t think there will be any surprises.”

Alexander only nodded.  All of the agents in Section Two had served overseas and had a more international view of politics and the narrow margin that existed between enemies and allies, and how fast those lines could change.  Every one of them understood what it was to be the odd foreigner out.  There would be no trouble; if Napoleon said it, it was so.  He hadn’t groomed the young man this long to stop trusting the instincts he knew where there under the smooth façade Napoleon presented, even now.  Perhaps especially now.  He looked up sharply to see the same calm expression on his agent’s face.  No expectation, no impatience, just a peaceful waiting.  That is exactly why I won’t play poker with the man either, Waverly thought to himself. 

“We’ve had a request from the air force, some curious goings on in Iowa, it seems.  I want you to go there and see what is happening.  The file will be delivered to you in an hour or so,”  Alexander put the pipe down.  “You have the evaluations for me?”

Napoleon pushed the file forward and leaned back again.

“I will expect you back here at 1500 with a plan for Iowa.”

Napoleon heard the dismissal and stood.  “Until then,” he turned with the smallest smile.

Alexander opened the file as the door shut silently after his agent.  The half dozen agents in Section Two that had no assigned partner had been evaluated and pairs suggested.  Each agent had, in fact, been suggested with detailed explanations for why different pairings would work best.  The only one who did not have at least two prospective partners suggested was Solo himself.  The point of the exercise had been to find a partner for his CEA and Waverly was starting to find himself impatient as he read through the file, but stopped himself.  He went back to the beginning and started to read again.  Solo wasn’t the only one that did not show up in the suggested pairings.

On the last page of the report was a handwritten note.

CEA Napoleon Solo with proposed Section Two Number Two Illya Kuryakin.  There is no better match.

Waverly briefly wondered if Solo had spent the entirety of the past year cultivating the rapport between himself and their only agent from the Soviets, or if he simply wouldn’t settle for anything less than the best, anything less than his own equal.  Waverly harrumphed to himself and his humidor.  He flipped the switch to call for his secretary.  The door to his office slid open silently in its track.

“Sir?”

“I have some dictation, but first I would like you to call down to the lab and inform Mr. Kuryakin he will be moving into an office upstairs,” he broke off when he saw the expression on his secretary’s face.  “Unless he is done moving his office, in which case I’d like to see him in about a half an hour.”  He watched as she turned to go make the call.

Solo had beaten him to the punch, as usual.  Someday the man was going to find his irresistible force up against an immovable object.  Waverly allowed himself a small smile in anticipation.  That very day may be coming sooner than he might think. 

He picked up his pipe again and struck a match, waiting for his secretary to return.