The One      The One by Waif	
 

Napoleon Solo thought once more through the months of grooming the
successor for his job. In truth he just wanted out, just pack a bag, get
on the first plane out of New York and leave behind the life that no
longer offered him any satisfaction or pleasure. As Head of Section One of
UNCLE he had dedicated himself to running the Command to the point where
he no longer had a personal life and having been in the business since his
early twenties the spy games no longer offered any satisfaction. 

He thought back to the one person he had ever loved, his friend and
partner Illya Kuryakin. At least Kuryakin's death had shown him one thing,
the futility of his own existence and a longing to have a life beyond the
world of international espionage. A desire to be something more 'normal',
if there were such a thing. A chance not to die alone. 

Of course there had been women in his past. There were always those who
would fling themselves at a man who could get them into the 'right'
cocktail parties or the 'important' dinner of some visiting dignitary. But
if he stood next to them and look in the mirror waiting to be announced to
some Bedouin Prince or European King he would see their eyes looking at
their dress, assessing it as an asset, or checking their hair and makeup.
Their eyes were never for him. There had been at least three women he had
pursued but could never fall in love with. Always he ended the affair
knowing there could be no deeper emotions between them than agreeing on
the next dinner party or which concert they should attend. 

There had also been a fleeting affair with another man, a foreign
diplomat. Perhaps it was because of his relationship with Illya, that
drove him to desire the man. He was handsome in his own way with short
dark curly hair but it was his detached almost intellectual disposition
that reminded him of his former lover. He spent a lot of time and effort
in the relentless pursuit to win his attention. When he finally had him he
knew he could not stay with him without resigning his job, so this affair
ended quickly. On reflection he was not so enamoured of the short Israeli
that he felt it was worth giving up his leadership of UNCLE. At the end of
the day he was no Illya Kuryakin. 

That name, even just the thought of it brought grief to his heart. Illya
had died alone on some jungle. It had been a month before his body was
discovered and the identification made. He hoped Illya had not suffered,
that he had not lain in terrible pain unable to move, dying of
dehydration. He shook the thought away. He had been unable to bring
himself to read of Illya's death in detail. Even now, just over a year
later he felt nauseous whenever he thought of pulling up the record on his
computer. 

 If only Kuryakin had not returned to the Soviet Union to resume his
career with the KGB. Just a week before Solo's name was officially
announced as successor to Waverly, he had returned home just to find a
note from Kuryakin saying goodbye. He kept it along with some photographs
and small treasures tucked away only to be retrieved when the pain was too
much. Ten years and now no hope of holding the one person he ever truly
loved in his arms again. 

As Napoleon emerged from his limo, nodding briefly to his chauffeur and
entered the elevator already summoned by his security guard. He sighed as
he settled down quickly to his 'at home' routine. Three reports to read, a
light supper, bath then bed. The world had become a predictable cage from
which there was no relief. 

 

'E 'aint got no shoes!" 

"Que?" the prison official looked questioningly at the young woman before
him. 

"He has not got any shoes" repeated Beth, this time more slowly
suppressing her London accent. 

Senor Del Gardo sighed. "Look around you, most people in this country do
not have shoes. If we started to give them to prisoners there would be
riots in the street." 

"But surely he had some when he came here?" 

"He probably sold them for food." 

Beth walked over to the prisoner. The stench made her stomach churn
slightly. It seemed pointless to complain. Doubtless washing prisoners
would have a similar effect to giving out shoes. She stretched out her
hand to touch his forehead. He flinched away but she kept her hand moving
till she made contact with his skin. She quickly glanced over his face
shaking her head as she returned to Senor Del Gardo. 

"'Ere'e's sick. I don't want any come back if he pops his clogs". 

Senor Del Gardo looked impatient. "What are these clogs?" he shook his
head impatiently, "We must conclude our business. I must leave soon. Are
you going to take him as was agreed with my government?" 

Beth had been dispatched to South America to pick up a convicted gun
runner to return to New York for questioning. She had grave doubts the man
in front of her was the right mana powerful gun runner such as Herr
Hermlich should have been faring far better, able to call in money and
favours. Then man in front of her looked like he hadn't got a friend in
the world. Had she been working for any other agent than Frenchie she
would have called with her doubts but knowing the French man, Savoie, she
knew she had to return with this man no matter what. Otherwise she would
get the 'you question my orders' routine. He was a complete bastard. She
sighed "Give me the form to sign. But I want a note initialled by you that
he is in poor health. I suppose there is no chance of a doctor's
certificate?" 

"Doctor does not come till tomorrow. You may wait if your prefer." 

Beth glance over to the prisoner. She had doubts as to whether he would
still be alive tomorrow. "No that's fine. I'll take him". She stumbled out
the standard phrases as to UNCLE's sincere thanks for the help of the
prison authorities and Senor Del Gardo. 

 

"I want to place myself under voluntary quarantine". 

Dr. Moleneaux looked at the young agent in disbelief. "And would you like
to explain to me exactly what prompts you to do that Agent Wade?" 

"I have escorted a prisoner from South America whom I believe to be
suffering from some kind of fever. Having been in close proximity to him
for the last seven hours I feel it is in my best interests to be in the
care of trained medical personnel." 

"And where is this prisoner now?" 

"He is with Agent Savoie being questioned". 

"Why doesn't Agent Savoie bring this man to me?" 

Beth wanted to say 'because he is a stupid git' but instead chose the more
diplomatic, "I don't know" 

Dr. Moleneaux looked long and hard at the agent. "I think I'd better look
into this matter." He crossed to the door, "Come with me my dear I think I
will entrust you to Nurse Taylor while I make enquiries." 

Thirty minutes later Dr. Moleneaux demanded to see Napoleon Solo. Napoleon
looked warily at Moleneaux as he entered his office. He had not always
seen eye to eye with the good Doctor recently and he wondered if this was
yet another round in their on going battle between Solo trying to keep
agents in the field and Moleneaux's reluctance to let agents not 100% fit
to continue working. 

"Do you realize that Agent Savoie is questioning a prisoner that could be
carrying a lethal contagious disease? He could have wiped out half this
headquarters by the morning." Napoleon inwardly groaned. "Who are we
talking about?" 

"The prisoner Savoie is holding in interrogation room two." Solo crossed
to the bank of screens at the far end of his office. He stabbed at a
couple of buttons for one of the screens to display the scene of a man
being questioned. If Dr. Moleneaux had taken the trouble to look he would
have seen Solo pale, momentarily lean on the desk, his eyes closed, hardly
able to believe the image in front of him. By the time the Doctor turned
round Solo had regained his composure his slick persona firmly in its
place disguising his inner turmoil. The Head of Operations was decisive.
"Doctor, can I ask you to make the necessary arrangements? I will speak to
Agent Savoie immediately." 

He turned back to the screen just in time to witness Savoie slap the
prisoner hard across the face. The poor man hardly seemed to notice. There
was no doubt in Solo's mind that the prisoner was Illya Kuryakin. He
quickly set wheels in motion, phoning the Chief Enforcement Agent to take
charge of the situation. At this moment in time he needed to keep a cool
head, seeing Illya would no doubt cloud his judgement. But the one fact
remained almost singing in his head, Illya is alive! 

Napoleon sat quietly in his office. How could he have been so ready to
believe the Kuryakin was dead? The report he had was brief, but he just
read that Kuryakin had been killed in a terrorist attack in Columbia. No
more detail than that, he should have looked harder. Kuryakin had at some
point been given Hermlich's identity and lived with it. Why? The whole
thing made no sense. 

He pushed a button on his desk and in front of him a screen showing the
secure sickroom in which the Russian had been placed sprang into view. Dr.
Moleneaux and Susan Hardy, the duty nurse were huddled with their patient.
The medical team wore gowns masks and gloves. They were in the process of
extracting blood samples, their patient struggled weakly against the
needle necessitating Moleneaux to hold him down whilst Susan took the
sample. For the first time since the night Illya left Napoleon broke down
in tears. 

The silence in Solo's office was broken by the noise of his secretary
buzzing him to remind him of his appointment in five minute's time. He
wandered into his private washroom and took a moment to wipe his face and
collect his thoughts. What was clear that the forces that had kept
Kuryakin from revealing his true identity were still in place, therefore
Kuryakin had to keep his false identity. With that thought in mind he
struggled into his normal face and taking a deep breath went back to his
office to face the rest of his day. 

Solo put through an order to class Illya as a 'Category D' patient. This
would restrict access to medical personnel only and luckily none of them
had been there long enough to have known Kuryakin. Searching through the
personnel records there were only eight people in the whole building that
could have recognised him and none of those were likely to be in Medical
for any reason. 

When Napoleon finally got through the day he thought through his options.
Illya had meant everything to him. Illya had to get well enough to leave
medical. He flipped on the screen in Illya's room. He looked at the frail
body lying there, eyes closed, very still. The next few days were going to
be hard. 

Three days later Solo approached medical. All the arrangements had been
made. He was to personally escort Herr Hermlich from the building to hand
him back to his organisation. As he swept into medical two nurses snapped
to attention and followed in his wake. Dr. Moleneaux was already at the
patient's bedside. As he entered Illya's eyes swept up to his face and met
his own eyes dead on. He flushed and looked away as if afraid of what he
saw. 

The patient was half lifted into a wheel chair and Solo silently took hold
of the handles and began to push. He just wanted to get the hell out of
there. Of course Moleneaux stopped him. Drugs and medical notes had to be
handed over. 

Napoleon felt a final sense of relief as they entered his apartment. He
busied himself with the alarms. Then he mumbled about getting some tea and
stumbled into the kitchen. Fighting back the emotion of having Illya in
his home he busied himself making tea, mechanically filling the kettle and
finding cups. Anything to fill his mind and stop him thinking of the man
in the next room. He picked up the two cups of tea to return to the lounge
bracing himself . 

Illya was sitting quietly on the sofa, seemingly calm. He accepted the tea
in silence. Despite holding the tea with both hands the cup trembled
slightly. Illya was still a sick man. Napoleon knew Illya of old, he knew
that he was just deploying tactics to keep himself safe, that his silence
was probably not a comment on their past relationship. 

"What time is the hand over?" the Russian finally asked. 

"There is no hand over. I just wanted to get you out of medical before you
started to riot". 

For only the second time that day Illya's eyes looked into his. "Who knows
I am here?" 

"No one. I've told no one". 

"Then what am I doing here. Why am I in your apartment?" 

"I wanted to give you some time," Napoleon hesitated. He was beginning to
realise how inane it all sounded. "I wanted you to get well and strong so
you can make your own decisions. I didn't want to force you into anything
you might not want". 

Illya remained silent. Slowly sipping his tea. He looked around the
apartment, with the occasional sideways glance at his host. Finally when
the tea was gone he placed the cup carefully on the table. He asked,
"Where am I to sleep?" 

Napoleon had already prepared his guest bedroom. He stood and motioned his
ex-partner to follow. "In here. As you can see there are some clothes for
you. Anything you don't want just leave the labels on and they can be
taken back. Illya fingered the black cashmere sweater and examined a shirt
still in the packet. "Your secretary has excellent taste." Just at that
moment Napoleon did not want to admit to purchasing the clothes himself. 

"Why don't you have a rest whilst I make us some dinner?" He neatly closed
the door exiting from the room. It had been all more difficult than he had
ever imagined. Illya was the one that had walked out on him. What if Illya
had never wanted to see him again? The thought spread an icy hand at the
back of his neck. Could he handle Illya's rejection? 

As he methodically prepared supper he went through their relationship in
his mind. A fact he had almost repressed over the years which now hit him
round the head with the force of club was that he had been the one to make
the first approach. And that approach had not been a gentle seduction but
an almost violent encounter. When he thought about it now with the benefit
of the distance of time the whole thing had been closer to assault than
seduction. 

Over dinner, despite numerous attempts to start a conversation, the
Russian remained stubbornly silent. In the end Napoleon admitted defeat
and completed the rest of the meal in silence. 

Their meal finished Napoleon cleared away, leaving Illya sitting at the
table sipping water very slowly. He needed to resolve his feeling and
decided to achieve this by provoking a response. "All those years ago you
were just using me weren't you?" Napoleon was suddenly caught by the
shocked look on Illya's face. Of course in reality Illya had never asked
for anything, never demanded favours, money, anything. 

"Just what was I using you for Mr. Solo? I would really like to know". 

There was no answer he could give. But at least Illya was now paying
attention to his words. He just quietly asked the question that had
haunted him for so long, "Why did you leave?" 

"It was all a long time ago, Napoleon, please." 

"Did you hate me so much that you could walk out without a word?" 

"No.... I... I. In the circumstances it was the best thing I could do for
both of us." 

And for the first time something clicked in Solo's mind. A conversation
with Waverly so many years ago. What were his words? "It was the best
thing he could have done." Of course he was a fool to think that Illya
would have just walked out like that. Alexander had badly wanted him as
his successor, whatever the cost. 

He cleared his throat. "For years I had been asking myself what I did
wrong. What did I do that made you leave. I think for the first time I
realise that it wasn't me." 

Illya couldn't meet his eye but quietly said ,"No, it wasn't you." 

It was a tremendous burden had been lifted off his shoulders. He felt the
tears stream down his face as he stumbled to the couch. Concerned Illya
rose and brushed the tears away with his hands before settling next to
him. He spoke slowly. "I could never understand why you wanted me. That
first time you took me, I tried to fight you off because I didn't
understand. I thought you were just using me. Looking back now I know I
enjoyed our time together. I always thought that it would be you that
ended it, not me." 

They held hands. Neither uttering a word. They just sat quietly each
dealing with their own pain. Eventually Napoleon looked into the Russian's
face. Pale and gaunt he looked exhausted. "I believe you should be in bed
my friend. We will have plenty of time to talk tomorrow. Now you need
sleep. He tucked his hand under Illya's shoulder and helped him rise from
the sofa. It took the Russian a moment to adjust to standing, then he
helped him to the bedroom. 

"It's alright, I can take it from here," he assured the American. 

Closing the door behind him Napoleon went to his own bedroom, suddenly too
tired to do anything else. 

 

The next day Solo rose and started to make eggs and toast, the sort of
food an invalid needed. He loaded a tray and walked to Illya's bedroom.
Illya was already dressed and sitting on the bed. He looked at the tray
"I'll come to the kitchen and eat with you if I may, I am tired of lying
in bed." 

"Sure?" 

"It was yourself who said I was ready to riot" 

After breakfast Illya enquired, "When do you have to leave for work?" 

"I don't. I've taken a few days off." 

Since when did the Head of UNCLE get time off?" 

"Since he announced his retirement." 

Solo looked Kuryakin full in the face. He was silent, obviously thinking
through the last statement. 

He grabbed Illya's hand, "Could I .. I mean could you just try to let me a
little closer? " He felt the hand stiffen. " I mean can we just talk? When
we were together we used to be able to talk to each other. I just want to
be able to talk to you again. Would that be so bad?" 

Illya smiled. "No that would not be so bad." They gazed at each other
through a silence that shrouded their thoughts. Napoleon couldn't think of
anything to say. For years he wanted to talk to Illya and now the moment
had come he could only gaze in silence. He focused his thoughts. There was
a pressing piece of information he needed. 

"Why didn't you tell them you were not Hermlich?" 

"Because Illya Kuryakin was in far more danger than Hermlich ever was. I
wanted to stay alive." 

"I understand." Napoleon nodded quietly. "Now there is something I must
tell you. You are dead." 

"What?" The Russian's face looked incredulously at him. "I thought the
evidence before your eyes suggested that .." 

"No, your organisation, Major Yatsev, they all think you are dead. A body
was found in the jungle. It was confirmed to be you. Dental records had
been checkedthe evidence was beyond question." In order to quash any
further debate he added the final, "They sent me your things, it was in
your will." 

Understanding now spread across Illya's face. "That is what you mean by
'making my decisions'? As I am dead I can re-invent myself as anything I
want. Now it falls into place." 

"I admit, I'm offering you a way out. But I wish..... I wish very much
that you would consider me in part of that future." He thought for a
moment. Five years ago he had been in Russia and had been under the
impression the he would be meeting Kuryakin. It never happened. He was
told Kuryakin had requested not to be present at the meeting. "That time
in Leningrad, why did you not want to see me?" 

"Waverly left clear and explicit instructions with my superiors, we were
never to meet. I never had the option." 

"I wish I'd known, I never realised just how far his influence lingered
till now. It's a pity, so much wasted time." He looked down on his former
lover, feeling a deep need that he had suppressed for so long. There was
one thing he needed to settle. 

Napoleon went to the closet in the hall and returned with a cardboard box.
It still had the shipping labels on. He had opened it when it arrived and
started to look through the meagre contents, but on recognising so many of
the contents he put it back. He now placed it on the sofa next to his
friend. 

Illya carefully took out each object. An envelope of photographs from his
childhood and youth. Ten photographs that started with his family and
ended with his graduation from the University of Georgia. Then a bulkier
envelope, photographs from his life in New York. Half of them had Napoleon
posing in them. Then small souvenirs, a gold coin here, a letter from a
friend there. A programme from an opera, cufflinks Napoleon had given him
one Christmas. Finally at the bottom several Jazz records. This time it
was Illya who started to weep. Napoleon put his arms round him and just
held him, waiting for the torrent of emotion to pass. 

Finally when the body in his arms finished shaking he turned the dear face
towards him and placed a slow gentle kiss. His friend responded, the damp
face pressed to his, lips parting. It was the most wonderful experience
Napoleon had felt for a long time. 

The Illya broke away. "Do you still...?" 

Napoleon smiled. "Yes, more than ever. I have never stopped loving you.
You are the one." 

Then the two lovers embraced, holding on as if around them the world had
disappeared, all that remained were two people who were finally reunited.
Both had lived in a world that had offered none of the comfort that they
felt now. They had both carried their love for a lifetime and now at last
they had the chance of happiness together.  


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