Title: The Growing Up Affair
Author: Joolz
Feedback: If you like J [email protected]
Author Website: http://www.geocities.com/joolz4me/Storygateindex.html
Genre: Slash, H/C, ER
Pairing: NS/IK
Rating: PG
Archive: StoryGate, Chrome
and Gunmetal, File 40
Summary: They were trying to lull her into a sense of
security.
Notes: Told entirely from the point of view of an
OFC. Thanks to the very nice Lady Ra and
Jenn for the beta help.
Warnings: None, no graphic sex
Disclaimer: Not my lovely characters, just playing with
them.
For Romanse
~~**~~
Clarice stood in her
borrowed dress and tried to fit in. This
was the first really hip party she’d been invited to since she got to college
and she was determined to make the scene.
That meant consciously stopping herself from tugging down the hem of her
miniskirt. When Clarice’s roommate had
loaned it to her she had stressed that it was supposed to be that way, so leave it alone.
The right side of the
dress was white and the left side was black, with large black plastic buttons
up the front. The knee-high black patent
leather boots, also on loan from Judy, completed the outfit. Clarice’s normally straight,
parted-down-the-middle brown hair had been teased into a complicated flip on
top of her head, and her friend had liberally applied makeup to her
unaccustomed face. She looked like one
of the cool kids. It was a pity she
didn’t feel like one.
Shifting the beer she was
holding from one hand to the other, Clarice also shifted her weight to her
other foot. There were kids in groups,
and couples lounging about on sofas and bean-bag chairs, but Clarice was
leaning against the edge of a table all on her own. She couldn’t bring herself to sit down, since
she didn’t know how to do so without showing the room her panties.
The beer she was holding
had gotten warm a while ago. She’d tried
to drink it, she really had, but the bitter taste was disgusting, so now she
just pretended. People were passing
cigarettes and what Clarice knew were joints around, but she just pretended
with those, too.
In other words, Clarice
was seriously regretting having attended the party. She usually spent Friday nights studying or
watching television in the dorm lounge, and she wondered what had possessed her
to try to be someone she wasn’t.
Oh, yes, she reminded
herself. It was her resolution to take
advantage of being away from home to become an interesting person. To hang out with the chicks and cats and
other farmyard descriptions for people who knew where it was at, and
subsequently find out for herself.
Clarice hadn’t expected that instead of being instantly cool, she would
want to crawl into a hole and hide. She wished Judy had been invited too, so at
least she would have had someone to stand with and not look like a total loser.
A tall, good-looking guy
named Jerry handed her another joint, and she smiled up at him as she took
it. Jerry had tried to talk to her
earlier, but Clarice had become tongue-tied and hadn’t been able to get out a
coherent sentence. After a few minutes
the boy had laughed at her and wandered away.
Clarice hoped her smile didn’t look as desperate as it felt.
As she brought the burning
roll of paper and herb to her lips, she was relieved that Jerry looked
away. It was hard to pretend to smoke
without actually doing it when someone was watching.
Still holding the joint
pinched between her thumb and forefinger, Clarice followed Jerry’s line of
sight. Two men had walked into the room,
looking even less like they belonged at the party than Clarice felt. They were really hunky, for older guys, even
if they were in suits and ties. The dark
haired one simultaneously winced and raised his eyebrows, clearly disapproving
of party’s atmosphere. The smaller blond
one coolly surveyed the room, his eyes coming to a stop when they landed … on
Clarice.
The blond said something
to his friend, and they both started walking towards her across the room. Clarice turned to look behind her, to see who
they were really looking at. There were a couple of kids necking in the
corner, but nothing else. When she
turned back, the men were still headed her way.
The feel of the party had
changed noticeably. Instead of
‘grooving’ on the ‘good vibes’, which was what Judy had instructed Clarice to
do, people were starting to look ‘uptight’.
They were also giving Clarice hostile glances, as though she were
responsible for these men being here. In
fact, Clarice was quite sure that she had nothing to do with it.
She was surprised, then,
when the pair stopped in front of her.
The dark haired man tilted
his head and asked with a charming smile, “Are you by any chance Miss Clarice
Farrell?”
His voice was so smooth
and dreamy she almost forgot to answer.
“Y, yes.”
The man continued, “Miss
Farrell, would you mind stepping outside with us? There’s a matter of some import that we need
to discuss with you.”
Clarice was confused. “Outside?” she asked. “Excuse me, but who are you?”
“My name is Napoleon Solo
and this is my partner Illya Kuryakin. A
situation has come up regarding your father and it’s rather urgent.”
Clarice frowned. It figured that her father would manage to
ruin her one chance at popularity. She
would never be invited to a party again.
Sure, she hadn’t been enjoying it, but it was the principle of the
thing.
“My father? What kind of situation?”
Mr. Solo said, “It’s quite
delicate, Miss Farrell. If you’ll come
with us we’ll explain everything.” He
took hold of her arm just above the elbow, and Clarice started to feel alarmed.
Just then Jerry, who was
still standing next to her, broke in, “Hey, little girl, these panty-waists
giving you a hard time?” He tried to
push between Clarice and Solo.
The blond man stepped
forward, placing one hand on Jerry’s arm, and said with a sexy foreign accent,
“I suggest you stay out of this….” He paused,
waiting to be supplied a name.
“Jerry,” Jerry supplied.
“Jerry. We are, I believe you might say, the
heat. We are not interested in any
illegal activities that might be taking place at this gathering.” He looked pointedly at the joint that Clarice
was still holding. She opened her
fingers and it fell to the ground. She’d
completely forgotten she was holding it. He went on, “We do, however, have urgent
business with the young lady. Unless you
would like to spend the rest of the evening in jail you should not interfere.”
The words themselves were
fairly mild, but the way they were spoken wasn’t. The man’s voice was like ice, and his eyes
even colder. Jerry was frozen in place,
his mouth hanging open.
Solo said to his partner,
whose strange name Clarice hadn’t quite caught, “We don’t have time for
this. Let’s leave now and explain
later.”
With a nod, the blond man
took hold of Clarice’s other arm and they began leading her toward the
door.
Now she really was
upset. “Hey!” she protested. “Let me go!”
The way they were pulling her was awkward, especially as she was still
holding the warm beer, the small handbag hanging from her wrist bouncing around
wildly.
“I’m sorry for the use of
force, Miss Farrell,” Mr. Solo said with urbane casualness, even as he
manhandled her. “Each moment we delay
puts your life at greater risk.”
“My life!” she
exclaimed. “But, but.”
Then they were
outside. After the incense and smoke of
the party, the fresh air felt good.
They were in a residential
neighborhood in Canton, New York, not far from the St. Lawrence University
campus, with lights on in the houses all around them. Clarice dug her heels in and pulled her arms
out of the men’s grips.
“Now wait just a
minute. I’m not going anywhere with you until
you tell me what’s going on. I’ll scream
my head off, I swear I will.”
Solo sighed. “Look, we work for an organization called
U.N.C.L.E., United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. This is for your own safety, so you should
cooperate.”
“Why? What does this have to do with my father?”
The blond man said, “It
has everything to do with your father.
He is Dr. Clarence Farrell, renowned nuclear chemist, is he not?”
Clarice nodded, and the
man went on, “There are some very bad men who want him to work for them. They have threatened to kill you if he
doesn’t do as they wish, and it’s our job ensure that that doesn’t happen. We are to take you to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters
in New York City. Your father is already
there.”
“And if you’re very good,”
Solo smirked, “we won’t tell Daddy where we found you.”
Clarice looked at the
bottle of beer in her hand, then set it down on the edge of a planter. “I’m not….”
She started to say that she didn’t smoke or drink or do anything,
really, but stopped. Why should she
explain anything to them? Let them think
what they wanted.
“How do I know you are who
you say you are?” she challenged.
Solo answered, “We’ll give
you all the proof you need on the way, but we are going to leave now. And you will come with us, even if I have to
carry you kicking and screaming. There’s
no need for that, is there?”
That did sound
undignified. And with a skirt this
short? Clarice shuddered.
“All right. But I still don’t know if I believe you.”
They escorted her to a
sedan parked at the curb and handed her into the back seat. She was glad it was dark, because she wasn’t
used to this much of her legs showing.
As the men got into the front seat, the blond driving, she clutched her
purse in her lap.
“Show me some
identification,” she demanded nervously.
Both men passed their I.D.
badges over the seat to her. In the
light of passing street lamps she looked them over. Yes, they said U.N.C.L.E. at the top, and had
photos. Napoleon Solo and Illya
Kuryakin. They were leaving the
outskirts of the small town as she handed them back.
“What kind of a name is
Kuryakin?” she asked.
“I am from the Soviet
Union,” he answered evenly.
“But they’re Communist!”
she exclaimed in alarm. Her father had
told her all about the Communists, how they were trying to destroy the American
way of life and take over the world.
“Yes, it is a Socialist
Republic, but I am working with an international organization now, that has
very little to do with such ideologies.”
But he was a
Communist. How could she believe
anything he said? “Are you a Communist
too?” she asked Solo, appalled.
He chuckled. “No, I’m afraid I’m a dyed in the wool
Capitalist. But I’m surprised you’re
worried about it. I thought you hippies
were all peace and love and easygoing.”
“I’m not….” She stopped herself again. Then she noticed how dark it was outside the
car. “Hey, where are we? Why aren’t we on the highway?”
The Russian answered, “We
have decided that it will be safer to go through the park. It is isolated, but for that very reason we
will be less likely to be spotted by Thrush patrols. They were already on campus, you know,
watching your dormitory.”
That didn’t sound
good. It was more than three hundred
miles from Canton to New York City, and longer than that if they went through
the Adirondack park. Were people going
to be trying to kill her all the way there?
People trying to kill her? It didn’t seem likely.
“Who is Thrush?”
Although Solo explained
about the organization of international criminals, it all sounded far
fetched. Especially that her father
could somehow be involved in such a thing.
True, since her mother had died three years earlier he hadn’t talked to
her much, so she didn’t know exactly what he did. Oh, he was very committed to her education
and didn’t want her to grow up to be one of the ignorant masses, but they
didn’t talk about anything so personal as his work.
What if what they were
telling her was a lie? It could be
completely the other way around, for all she knew. They could have kidnapped her to use against
her father. She’d been kidnapped by
Communists!
Clarice scooted back into
the corner of the seat and tried to figure out what she should believe. What she should do. She didn’t seem to have many options at this
point. They were in the middle of
nowhere. By the flashes of lightning around
a distant peak she could see that they were climbing steadily into the
Adirondack Mountains. It wasn’t like she
could just jump out and escape right here.
After driving in silence
for a while, Kuryakin leaned forward and switched on the radio. It was set to Clarice’s favorite pop station
out of Albany. Strains of “Mrs. Brown, you’ve got a lovely daughter”
filled the car.
Solo leaned forward, but
his partner said, “Ah! Do not touch that
dial, Napoleon. We are not going to
listen to some Wagnerian opera while driving through the mountains at night. Believe me, you want me awake, not suicidal.”
“But Illya,” Solo argued,
“Pop music? Can’t you find a jazz
station, or show tunes?”
“I think you’ll find, my
friend, that reception here is quite limited.
Besides, I like pop music.”
Another song started and
to Clarice’s surprise the Russian sang along.
“Love, love me do.
You know I love you. I’ll always
be true, so please love me do.”
His voice was pleasant and
light.
Solo complained, “You’re
doing this on purpose to torture me, aren’t you?”
“I would have thought you
would be glad to see me embracing your bourgeois entertainment.” It was dark, but Clarice could hear the smile
in the teasing tone.
“It’s certainly not my bourgeois entertainment. Give me Frank Sinatra or Dean Martin any
day.”
The next song was one of
Clarice’s favorites. Before she knew it
she was sitting forward, leaning over the seat between the two men,
listening. After a few lines, she joined
Kuryakin in the sing-along.
“So Ferry ‘cross the Mersey, and always take me
there. The place I love.”
“You have a nice voice,”
Kuryakin said to her casually. She
didn’t want to be pleased, but blushed anyway.
For the duration of “The way you do the things you do,” “Baby I
need your loving” and “Do Wha Diddy Diddy
Dum Diddy Do”, Clarice
forgot where she was and just enjoyed the music. She hadn’t been exposed to a lot of the
things other kids her age had, but she’d always had a radio in her
bedroom. The music she knew.
Mr. Solo was apparently
surprised that Mr. Kuryakin knew it, too.
“But how do you know the
words? I’ve never heard you sing them
before.”
“I’m not with you every
minute, Napoleon. And all the young
people are familiar with these songs.”
“Young people?
You aren’t that much younger than I am, Illya. You aren’t exactly…” he turned to look at
Clarice, “How old are you?”
“Uh. Eighteen,” she admitted, feeling like a
child.
“You aren’t exactly
eighteen,” he continued nagging.
“Ah,” Kuryakin
commented. “I begin to get the
impression that you are jealous.”
“Jealous! Of what?”
“That I know something you
do not.”
“I hardly think the lyrics
to insipid songs played on the radio count as knowing something.”
“Then why are you so
incensed?”
“I’m not, I’m just annoyed
at being subjected to this caterwauling.”
Clarice grinned as she
listened to them bicker. It seemed so
normal. They seemed so normal. Not dangerous or subversive or anything. They were both very cute, and very funny
together.
Then she sat back. It was no good thinking that way. For all intents and purposes she’d been
kidnapped by these strangers and didn’t know what their true plans were. It could all be an act. They could be trying to lull her into a false
sense of security.
She told herself that she
should not, could not allow herself to like them.
The radio reception faded
to static and Illya turned it off. In
the dark, swaying car, Clarice fell asleep.
~~**~~
The abrupt cessation of
motion woke her. Rain was pounding the
roof and windows and lightning flashes lit the sky every few seconds, and
Clarice had slept through it. As she pushed
herself up into a sitting position, Clarice heard Solo question his partner as
to why the car had stopped.
The Russian answered, “It
is much more dangerous to continue driving under these conditions than it is to
stop. Mr. Waverly will hardly thank us
for finishing the job Thrush set out to do.
I fully intend to get the girl to New York alive.”
“Fine, but sitting here in
the middle of the road isn’t exactly safe.
What to you propose?”
Kuryakin pointed off the
road to the right. “I believe I saw a
structure of some kind there, through the trees.”
Solo peered into the
darkness. “You do have good eyesight,
Illya. I see something, too. It looks like a cabin.”
“Probably a shelter for
hunters or campers. I suggest we wait
out the storm there.”
As much as Clarice tried,
she couldn’t see anything but the ghostly waving of branches in the blue
lightning. She hoped there was somewhere
they could go inside, because she’d never been fond of being out in storms. The wind buffeting the car made her long for
solid walls.
Mr. Kuryakin carefully
steered the vehicle through an opening in the trees, coming to a stop next to a
cabin about fifty yards from the road.
He maneuvered so that the car was hidden by the front porch, then jumped
out and raced toward the door. Mr. Solo
got out the other side, hurried around the car, opened the back door closest to
the house, and offered Clarice his hand.
She took it, and the agent
pulled her out into the pouring rain, quickly leading her up the stairs to the
porch. He placed her against the wall
and sheltered her with his body, but even so, cold, wet droplets reached her
bare skin, causing her to shiver. The
noise of the storm made her want to hide her face against the man’s chest, even
if it would seem childish. Whoever he
might actually be, he was tall and strong and she could feel the heat of his
body inviting her closer.
There was barely time for
the thought to pass through her mind before Kuryakin had the door open and Solo
was ushering her inside. When the door
closed behind them it was suddenly much quieter but utterly dark, the space
illuminated only by flashes of light finding their way through gaps in the
window drapes.
Clarice stood in place
rubbing her arms for warmth as the men busied themselves closing the curtains
more securely. Then they both flicked on
cigarette lighters and looked around.
“What do you think, IK?”
“I believe it is safe to
light a fire. It will be a cold night
without one.”
Illya went to the hearth,
which was on the far wall of the single room, facing the door. While he started a fire, Napoleon inspected
the rest of their accommodations. On the
wall to their left were cabinets and a basin with a hand pump. There were two double beds with bare
mattresses pushed against the wall to the right. Between the fireplace and the front entrance
stood a long wooden table with benches.
Next to the fireplace, a door led to a small bathroom.
It didn’t take long for
the fire to begin to light and warm the room.
Illya called to Clarice, “Come here by the fire. It is much nicer.”
She did, and up close she
could see that his hair was wet and matted to his head, and his suit coat was
soaked. Napoleon came out of the
bathroom with a stack of thin towels, looking no better.
Handing them each a towel,
Napoleon said, “Here. Let’s get dried
off as best we can. We don’t want to
deliver Miss Farrell with a cold, now do we?”
Clarice shivered, and he moved her closer to the fire.
It all seemed like a dream
to Clarice. She was still sleepy from
her nap in the car and she’d never been in a place like this before. Growing up, her father had provided her
mother and herself, and then just Clarice, with every physical comfort
available. This primitive room, windows
rattling in the wind, was like something she might have read about in a novel,
not a place she herself would ever be.
After she patted herself
dry, Illya settled her at the table at the end nearest the fire. He asked, “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” Clarice replied,
trying to keep the sulk out of her voice.
“I don’t like it here. Where are
we, anyway?”
“We won’t be here
long. We passed through Indian Lake ten
miles back and will reach Highway 87 in another twenty or so.”
That didn’t tell her much,
as she’d never been in the Adirondack Park before, but she did know that
Highway 87 went to Albany, so that was practically civilization.
After rattling around in
the cupboards, Solo began working the hand pump in the ‘kitchen’ and filled a
large metal kettle. Placing it on the
fire, he then set three mugs on the table along with a rather old looking box
of teabags.
“A nice cup of tea is just
what we need,” he said brightly, sharing a quick look with his partner.
Clarice scowled at
him. What she needed was to be tucked
into bed in her dorm room, listening to Judy snore, not trapped in the
mountains with strange men. When it
arrived, however, the hot tea did help her feel a little less disgruntled. It was almost cozy sitting at the table by
the fire, all of them sipping hot drinks.
Obviously making
conversation, Illya asked, “So what are you studying at the university, Miss
Farrell?”
Taking a breath, she
determined to sound more positive than she felt. “Well, I’m just in my first semester, so it’s
mostly general requirements right now.
But I’m thinking about majoring in mathematics. We don’t have to declare until next year.”
Illya raised his eyebrows
in interest. “Mathematics? Are you considering following your father
into the sciences?”
Clarice shrugged. “I don’t know. I was thinking about being a math teacher, if
I’m good enough. My father doesn’t think
women should be in the hard science professions.”
“Well, that’s
short-sighted of him,” Napoleon commented.
“We know some quite accomplished female scientists. On both sides of the philosophical
divide.” He winked at Illya in some
private communication.
Then Solo said, “If you
don’t mind my asking, you seem like a fairly level headed young lady. What were you doing at a party like
that? It isn’t the sort of thing that’s
conducive to a serious career of any kind.”
“I,” Clarice started. She was too tired to dissemble, so she
blurted, “I’ve never been to a party like that before. Hardly any parties at all, really, except for
at my father’s country club or school events.
I’m not the type of girl who gets invited to parties. I’m plain and boring and these aren’t even my
clothes. I just wanted to fit in,” she
finished morosely.
“Well,” Illya stated, “I
hardly think you’re plain or boring.
You’re actually quite pretty. If
I were you, I wouldn’t worry too much about fitting in. Follow your own interests and beliefs, and
you’ll find the place in the world just made for you. It may not be where you expect, but then
again it may be much better.”
Clarice felt her face
heat. He thought she was pretty?
Napoleon smiled at his
partner. “Just like you, Illya? Would you ever have expected to end up where
you are?”
Illya smiled back. “Not, as you say, in a million years. I have no regrets about it. None at all.”
Clarice covered her mouth
to stifle a large yawn. It must be two
or three in the morning by now, and it had been a long night.
Napoleon got up and laid
one of the remaining dry towels on the end of one of the beds, then asked
solicitously, “Would you like to get some sleep? This storm will probably last a couple more
hours.”
She did really want to lay
down, so she nodded and went over to the mattress. He gave her another towel to cover her legs,
which was good or she never would have been able to relax.
Clarice settled herself
and winced at the scratchy texture of the towels and the musty smell of the
bed. At least the room was warm. She didn’t expect to actually sleep, though.
She was wrong about that
and woke to the sound of a log popping in the fire, curled on her side.
When she opened her eyes
she could see both men setting on the far side of the table from where she
was. They were straddling the bench,
both facing the fire. Napoleon was in front,
with Illya behind him. Very close behind
him. It almost looked like he had his
arms around the other man. Clarice
frowned, blinking her eyes.
A little more awake, she
realized she wasn’t wrong. Kuryakin’s chin was resting on his partner’s shoulder, his
chest pressed to Solo’s back. Clarice
had never seen men do that before. She
could hear the quiet murmur of their voices as they talked with each other. She couldn’t make out the words, but the tone
was very familiar and intimate. They
must be good friends, she thought. The
image played behind her eyelids as she drowsed back towards sleep.
Then she started awake,
and her blood ran cold. They weren’t
just friends, they were more than that.
She found herself holding her breath in fear as she worked it through in
her mind. They were homosexuals. Men who had boyfriends instead of
girlfriends. According to Clarice’s
father, they were the only thing worse than Communists. They were sick and perverted and violent and
dangerous. They attacked small children
and did horrible things to them.
Clarice had been kidnapped
by Communist homosexuals. She
concentrated on remaining still and making no sound. She didn’t want them to realize that she had
seen. Who knew what they might do to
her? She’d been right. They were trying to make her feel safe, but
they were evil. She had to be very
careful, and get away from them as soon as she could.
Clarice took slow, even
breaths as she lay quietly on the old mattress.
It was almost too much to take in, especially as she didn’t really
understand. She knew about sex, what men
and women did, at least in general terms.
What went where, anyway. But what
did two men do together? They didn’t
have the same parts as women.
She squeezed her eyes
closed but it didn’t stop her brain from thinking. She had never met any homosexuals as far as
she knew, and had never asked anyone about it.
It wasn’t the type of thing normal people talked about. There were those two girls at the university,
Hannah and Susan, who people laughingly said were Lesbos. Clarice knew that meant women who had
girlfriends. What on Earth did they do for sex? It didn’t make any sense.
When nothing awful
happened immediately, Clarice started to calm down. She had to think about this rationally. Opening her eyes, she found the two men still
in the same position. Solo chuckled at
something Kuryakin said and tilted his head back. Their lips brushed briefly, and then they
went back to looking at the fire. It was
embarrassing. Disturbing. Private.
Clarice didn’t have any business seeing something like that.
But on the other hand, it
didn’t seem violent or dangerous. It was
sort of sweet, and they were both still hunks.
And they’d been nice to her, except for when they’d taken her out of the
party. They seemed to want to protect
her. She didn’t know what to think.
Kuryakin stood up and
stretched, his slim body illuminated by the firelight. His jacket fell back and she saw the outline
of a holster and gun against his white shirt.
That was another shock. Clarice
reprimanded herself, because it shouldn’t be.
They were agents of some kind, whether good or bad, so of course they
had guns. She simply hadn’t thought
about it.
Just loud enough so that
Clarice could hear, Kuryakin said, “It sounds like the storm is letting
up. I’m going to go check around
outside.”
Solo nodded. “All right.”
After his partner had stepped out into the murky pre-dawn light, Solo
got up and poked the fire with a stick, sending up a plume of sparks.
Clarice pretended to still
be asleep, unsure of what she should do.
She should probably make a run for it and try to get a lift back to
school. But that sounded pretty scary, too.
The front door opened and
shut abruptly.
“Napoleon, get the
girl.” Illya’s
voice was tense and now he held the gun in his hand.
The other agent stood up
straight and reached for his own weapon.
Even as he was moving towards Clarice he asked, “What is it?”
“I’m not sure, but I think
we have company.”
“Then we probably do.”
Solo touched her shoulder
and Clarice looked up at him. “Are you
awake? We need to go,” he said quietly,
his face serious.
Clarice sat up, the towel
still covering her legs. “Okay.”
Kuryakin went into the bathroom
and peeked through the small window that faced the rear of the cabin, then came
back into the room.
He said, “We’d better-”
and the world exploded.
**~~**
Clarice was on the
floor. There was a weight on her back,
and she realized that it was Mr. Solo, his body covering hers. Why was she on the floor? Why was she breathing dust? As memory started to return, she started to
panic. Something had happened. The building had collapsed. No.
Been blown up. She remembered the
far wall flying to pieces.
Her body shaking, she
tried to wriggle out from under the agent, who wasn’t moving. He moaned and shifted, then took some of his
weight on his arms, allowing her to scoot out.
The cabin was
decimated. A large hole in the wall and
ceiling was letting in a mist of rain.
Debris was everywhere, and a fire was spreading where some wood had
fallen into the hearth. Solo was propped
up on his elbows, covered in dust, his previously perfect hair in disarray, a
grimace on his face. Blood was dripping
off his chin from a gash in his head, just above the temple. Clarice realized that some of that blood was
on her shoulder and arm, staining her dress and skin. She tried to wipe it off with her hand, but
it just smeared. She wondered idly if
the stain would come out or if she would need to buy Judy a whole new
outfit.
He squinted at her. “You all right?”
She sat looking back at
him numbly, no words coming.
A noise drew her
attention, and she saw two men standing outside looking in at them through the
hole in the wall. Solo fumbled for
something on the ground, then brought his hand up, pointed at the men. Several gun shots sounded, and Clarice
screeched, slapping her hands over her ears.
She bent over, closing her eyes, wishing it would all go away. She didn’t want to be here.
Clarice felt hands on her
arms, shaking her, and looked up. Solo
was on his knees, saying, “Miss Farrell.
Clarice. Easy, now. Clarice, are you hurt?”
She considered that, then
shook her head.
“It’ll be all right,” he
said. “Just stay here.”
Then he left her sitting
there and stood up, staggering slightly, the gun still in his hand. “Illya?” he called.
Clarice looked around the
room. There was no movement other than a
stream of smoke drifting toward the opening.
Napoleon cried, “Illya!”
and Clarice tried to see where he was looking.
At one end of a pile of debris there was a bit of golden-yellow
hair. Illya had been nearer the wall
when the explosion happened, and she thought he must be dead. She started to hyperventilate. Dead!
The still mobile
U.N.C.L.E. agent staggered over and started pulling wreckage away. It wasn’t that much, really, and soon she
could see more of the Russian. He was
lying on his back with one large ceiling beam pinning him down across his
middle.
Solo patted his face. “Illya.
Talk to me.”
Kuryakin’s head rolled to the side and he groaned. “Napo…”
Not dead, then. That was a tremendous relief to Clarice,
who’d never seen a dead body, not ever her mother’s. She had no desire to start now.
“Right here.” Solo tried to shift the beam, but it wouldn’t
budge. “Can you move at all?”
Illya’s face contorted with effort, then he said, “No.”
“All right,” Solo said
grimly. “I’ll have you free in a
minute.” He tried to lift the heavy
piece of wood again.
“Napoleon,” Illya said softly, then again, with more
force. “Napoleon.”
Solo leaned over. “What?”
Illya looked toward
Clarice. “Get the girl to safety. That’s the mission.”
Frowning, Solo stated,
“I’m not leaving you.”
“Yes, Napoleon, you
are. Thrush is out there. You must protect the girl.”
“No,” Solo barked.
“Yes. Your duty.
And mine. You know I’m right.”
Clarice could see
Napoleon’s face as he looked down at his partner. His lover, she thought. She could see emotions fighting for
dominance. Horror, fear, frustration,
and winning out, realization that Illya was right. Napoleon was going to have to leave him for
her sake.
A sudden moment of clarity
washed through Clarice, swamping even her own shock and panic. Napoleon was going to have to leave someone
he loved, and man or woman, love was love, to certain death. If the bad guys didn’t kill him outright, the
burning cabin would. Napoleon was going
to have to walk away and not look back, just to save her.
It wasn’t right. No one should have to do that. No one should have to suffer that. Clarice could feel the pain deep in her gut,
as though it were happening to her. It
gave her the strength to move.
“No,” she echoed Solo’s
earlier statement.
Both men turned their
heads to look at her.
“No, we won’t leave
him. We’ll get him out. I’ll help.”
She pushed herself to her knees and crawled across the several feet of
floor separating her from the men.
Looking down at Illya she said, “I won’t go without you, and that’s
final.”
He shook his head, looking
pale but resolute. “You must. Thrush…”
“Never mind Thrush.” She turned to Napoleon, who was looking at
her with a new mixture of emotions.
Hope, gratitude, relief, and not a little determination. “We’ll move the beam,” she told him.
“Right,” he said. “We need a lever.”
Illya tried again, “Napol…”
“Quiet,” Solo
snapped. He scrambled away and soon came
back with a metal pipe and block of wood.
He positioned the pipe under the beam near where it rested on Illya’s body and braced it over the block. He said to her, “When I lift the beam, pull
him out from under. Get ready. We’ll only have one chance at this.”
Clarice shifted to kneel
at Illya’s head and tried to get a hold on his
shoulders, finally settling on grabbing the backs of his arms. She nodded that she was ready.
Napoleon put all his
effort into pushing down on the lever, his face contorted with exertion. The beam shifted a little and he pushed harder. She could see that it lifted a couple of
inches.
“Now,” he gasped.
Clarice pulled. Kuryakin was not a large man, but he was
heavy for Clarice. She tugged and
managed to drag him a few inches. She felt
his body stiffen under her hands, and his face transformed to a rictus of pain. She
could tell that he was fighting not to scream.
Startled, she let go.
Napoleon growled, “Get him
out.”
“He’s hurt,” Clarice
protested.
“He’ll be hurt worse if
you don’t get him out. Just do it!”
She grasped his arms again
and pulled. Scrambling backwards, she
ignored the cuts and bruises she was getting on her knees and pulled hard. It seemed to take forever, but little by
little the man came free. All of a sudden
it was much easier, and he slid the rest of the way out. Napoleon dropped the beam, which shook the
floor with its weight.
Clarice saw that there was
a large splinter of wood sticking up out of Illya’s
hip. It must have been a part of the
beam that dug into him when she pulled him away, thus the pain and
resistance. She stared at the blood
welling up in morbid fascination. It was
dark and raw and she felt sick.
Napoleon leaned over his
partner. “I’m going to pull this out,”
he said.
Illya nodded, his face
sweating and eyes unfocused.
Solo grasped the splinter
and yanked straight up, eliciting another moan from his partner, who then
seemed to pass out. Solo slipped off his
damp jacket and pressed it to the wound.
“Hold this here,” he ordered Clarice.
She leaned over Illya and
placed her hands where Napoleon’s had been and pressed. The agent retrieved his gun from his holster,
stood and went to the gaping hole in the wall to peer out. The smoke from the fire was thicker now, and
Clarice could barely see him.
He darted back into the
room, grabbed several burning boards and threw two of them out of the
opening. Then he cracked the front door
and threw the other three in different directions. Clarice heard several thuds as bullets hit
the cabin wall from outside. They were
shooting at him!
Solo hurried back and
knelt beside his partner. “Illya? You awake?”
The blond head nodded, and
the blue eyes opened.
“Can you walk?” Solo
asked.
The answer was somewhat
indistinct. “Don’t know. But I guess I’ll have to. You bloody stubborn Americans.”
Solo grinned down at
him. “That’s the ticket. Up you go, then.”
He eased Illya to a
sitting position, catching him as he slumped forward. Wrapping his arms around Illya, Napoleon stood,
pulling the other man to his feet. After
a moment Illya steadied, standing on his own and only leaning partially on
Napoleon. Illya tried to take a step,
but his leg gave out and he almost fell, caught again in Napoleon’s arms.
“Sorry,” Illya murmured. “My hip.”
“That’s okay. We’ll help you. Clarice?
Can you lend him a hand getting out of here?”
She nodded. “Sure.”
Moving closer, Solo placed Illya’s arm around
her shoulder and she felt his weight shift to her. It was a strange sensation to be practically
carrying a man, but it was okay. She
could do it. His life depended on her
for the moment, and maybe her own did, too.
They still had to get away from the men trying to kill them.
Shuffling, Clarice and
Illya followed Napoleon to the opening in the wall. Outside the early morning fog was thick,
hanging in a grey blanket around the cabin.
The burning pieces of wood Napoleon had thrown out were producing thick
smoke that swirled through the fog. The
flames didn’t so much illuminate as cast odd shadows all around. It would make it harder for anyone to see
them.
Napoleon turned to her and
Illya. “Wait for my signal, head
straight across to the woods, then aim for the road. I’ll catch up with you.”
Illya nodded, and Clarice
was glad he knew what to do, because she didn’t. What signal?
Where was the road?
Solo slipped out of the
opening and disappeared in the direction of the front of the cabin.
After a moment Illya
cocked his head and said, “Now.” Clarice
hadn’t heard any signal, but she trusted that he had.
They hobbled out into the
mist as quickly as they could. Illya’s arm was tight around Clarice’s shoulder and he grew
heavier with every step. This close to
him, she could hear suppressed gasps and hisses as he tried to walk.
They made the nearby tree
line and then Illya pointed at an angle to the left. By the time they reached the gravel shoulder
of the road, Clarice was practically dragging him. She stopped, leaning them both against a
tree, and asked urgently, “Mr. Kuryakin, are you all right?”
His face pale, he managed
a tight smile. “I think we might be on a
first name basis at this point, don’t you, my dear? And to answer your question, it seems that I
may have some rather serious damage to my hip, possibly a broken bone.”
She looked down, but it
was hard to see anything but dark pants.
Then she noticed some red on the ground and realized that it was Illya’s blood, still dripping from the open wound. She looked up at him in alarm.
“You’re doing wonderfully,”
he assured her. “All will be well. We’ll wait here for Napoleon’s next signal.”
Clarice didn’t know how he
could be so calm about everything. If
she were hurt that badly she’d be screaming her head off, for sure.
Looking down again, Clarice
noted that her own legs were dirty, scraped and spattered with blood, and there
was still an awful lot of them showing.
It didn’t seem to matter anymore, though. Compared to the threat of imminent death, a
little thing like someone seeing her panties wasn’t all that important. Survival was the priority.
Clarice found that it did
matter to her whether Illya and Napoleon survived. And herself, too, of course. But she was convinced now that they had been
telling the truth and were the good guys, regardless of anything else. They were almost friends. At the very least, the three of them needed
each other.
There were some muffled
noises coming from behind them, and she realized that it must be Napoleon
fighting somehow with their attackers.
Then suddenly he was in front of them, his face and shirt still stained
with blood, but his eyes sharp.
“Come on,” he told them,
and led them along the road to the left as he looked around intently, gun at
the ready. There was a car parked at the
side of the road that wasn’t the one they’d come in. The Thrush agents’ car, then.
Just as Napoleon opened
the back door, Illya’s weight grew heavier against
her and she struggled to keep him standing.
“Napoleon!” she whispered loudly.
He turned back and grabbed
Illya before he could collapse entirely and picked him up in his arms. Napoleon maneuvered Illya’s
lax body into the back seat, laying him out horizontally. Then he backed out of the car and motioned
Clarice in.
“Get on the floor in the
back. Stay down and try to stop the
bleeding if you can. I’ll be right
back.”
He helped her in and
closed the door, then disappeared before she could ask where he was going. Clarice looked around and found a used man’s
shirt stuffed halfway under the driver’s seat.
Her nose wrinkled at the smell, but it was the only thing she had so she
balled it up and pressed it against Illya’s hip.
The front car door opened
and she stuck her head up to see who it was.
“It’s me,” Napoleon said
quietly. “Stay down.”
Clarice ducked and
concentrated on staying hidden as Napoleon started the car. They pulled onto the road and drove on, she
thought in the same direction they had been traveling the night before. Clarice could see that the fog was still
thick, and they weren’t going very fast.
“Is it all right now?” she
asked.
“Those Thrush operatives
won’t be bothering us again, but there will be more,” he responded grimly. “We’re not out of the woods yet.” Then, his voice tight, he asked, “How’s Illya?”
Clarice looked at the blond
man’s slack face and answered, “I think he’s still unconscious.”
“Okay. Do the best you can with him.”
It was uncomfortable on
the dirty car floor, bumping along the twisting mountain road, but Clarice
focused on keeping pressure on Illya’s wound. Even through the bunched up material she
could feel his hip bone under her hands.
Yet another first for her. She’d
never actually touched a man before tonight, and this felt incredibly
personal. Still, it didn’t upset her
like it might have the day before. A lot
had changed in the last few hours, and Clarice hardly felt like the same person
at all.
There was a beeping sound
in the front seat, and she heard Napoleon say, “Open Channel D.” There was static and the faint sound of a
woman’s voice, but it faded in and out.
“This is Solo. Reception is bad,
but if you can hear me, we’re on 28 about twenty miles from Highway 87. We were attacked by Thrush agents and
Kuryakin is seriously injured. Miss
Farrell is doing wonderfully, though I’m sure it hasn’t been the best night of
her life. Some additional agents as
backup would be very helpful, if it isn’t too much trouble. I’ll keep trying to check in as we get out of
the mountains. Solo out.”
Clarice wasn’t sure
exactly how he could be talking to anyone from inside the car, but they were
like spies, so who knew. It was probably
more James Bond type stuff. She’d seen
that movie with Sean Connery, but hadn’t expected to ever be living something
like that herself. It certainly wasn’t
as glamorous as they made it look. In
fact, pretty much everything about it was horrible.
Pushing aside some hair
that had fallen in her face, Clarice didn’t even want to think about how she
must look at this point. The care that
had gone into fixing her clothes, hair and makeup last night, just last night,
had been wiped away by dirt and blood and violence.
Her mind drifted as the
car rolled forward. Napoleon hadn’t
turned on the radio, so it was quiet. So
different than the start of the trip.
Illya groaned and shifted
slightly. Her eyes snapped to his face,
to find him looking down at her.
“Clarice,” he murmured. “Are you
all right?”
Without even thinking she
blurted, “I’m scared! I’m so scared.” She swallowed the lump that had suddenly
appeared in her throat, making tears prickle the corners of her eyes.
“It’s going to be fine, I
promise.”
He didn’t seem to think it
incongruous for him, gravely injured, to be saying that to her.
His said softly, “Clarice,
why don’t you sing to me for a little while.
It will help me to feel better.”
She stared at him. Was he serious? He looked like he was. His hand shifted to rest on top of hers where
it was still holding the shirt to his wound, which she thought had maybe
stopped bleeding, at least.
“Go ahead,” he urged.
Clarice cleared her dry
throat. This was easy. She could sing.
“How many roads must a man walk down,” she warbled, “before
they call him a man? Yes n how many seas
must a white dove sail, before she sleeps in the sand?”
He patted her hand. “Very nice.
Keep going.”
Her low note on wind was cut off when the car suddenly
swerved to the right and onto a bumpier terrain. “Hang on, back there,” Napoleon advised. After a few moments it came to a stop and the
engine cut off.
“Napoleon?” Illya asked
quietly.
“There were some cars
coming the other way. I don’t want to
take any chances until we’re in a more defensible position.”
Napoleon got out of the
car and came around to the back door by Illya’s
feet. He opened it and leaned in, and
Clarice could see thick pine branches outside framing his body. He climbed part way into the back and Clarice
scooted as far as she could toward the other door to make room for him.
The dark haired agent gave
her a nod of thanks, then gently checked the injury as he asked, “How are you
doing, Illya?”
“Splendid. I have my own private chanteuse, as you may have noticed.”
“You do tend to bring out
the nightingale in the ladies, don’t you my friend?” Napoleon teased.
“What can I say, it is a
gift. My gypsy heritage, no doubt.”
Napoleon snorted. “Gypsy heritage my a..” he stopped and winked
at Clarice.
He leaned closer to his
partner, cupped his hand against Illya’s cheek and
asked in a softer, warmer voice, “Really, how are you?”
Illya sighed. “Not terribly good. But I am alive, which is somewhat
unexpected. It is not anything terminal
unless we don’t make it back to headquarters.
Don’t worry about me.”
“But I do, you know
that. I’m going to take you straight to
the hospital in Albany.”
“You’ll do no such
thing. You’ll stay on the side roads as
much as possible, but will continue directly to New York City.” When Napoleon opened his mouth to argue, the
obviously very stubborn Russian went on, “I am quite grateful to you both for
saving my life, but the mission remains to get Clarice to her father
safely. We will take no unnecessary
risks. I’ll be fine until we get
there. Truly, Napoleon, I will.”
Solo studied his partner’s
face and rubbed a thumb over his pale cheek.
“Pig-headed…. All right, for
now. I won’t risk your life unnecessarily,
though. You’re more than a little
important to me, you know.”
Illya’s lips twitched into a fond smile. “And you to me, tovarisch.”
Napoleon drew back. “Let’s get this show on the road, then,” he
said briskly, and favored Clarice with another wink. He was just too gorgeous for words, even in
his bedraggled state. It fairly took her
breath away.
When he climbed out of the
back and resumed driving she shifted to stretch her legs the best she could,
then noticed Illya’s eyes on her. He looked at her speculatively, until out of
nervousness Clarice blurted, “It’s okay,” without knowing what, exactly, she
meant.
Illya patted her hand
again. “You’re a fine girl,
Clarice. I hope you know that.”
For about the millionth
time, she blushed. “Thanks.”
Her companion fell asleep
and Clarice rested her head on his arm, lulled by the motion of the car. Napoleon told her when they reached the
highway, and explained when they turned off onto a parallel secondary
road. She listened to another conversation
between Napoleon and a small, tinny voice, but didn’t pay attention. It was all starting to catch up to her and
she felt kind of floaty. The lack of breakfast and water didn’t help,
and time drifted by like in a dream.
Clarice was aware when a
couple of additional cars with U.N.C.L.E. agents arrived to escort them. There was some kind of confrontation and she
felt Napoleon’s tension increase dramatically, but he kept driving and told her
not to worry, the others would take care of it.
That was okay with her. She was
confident that they would make it all right, now. She wasn’t alone. They weren’t alone.
When they pulled out of
traffic and into an underground parking garage, Clarice sat up. A man in a suit opened the door and helped
her out. She wobbled a bit, her legs
having cramped up after all that time on the floor, but it wasn’t too bad.
Some other men dressed as
doctors lifted Illya out of the back seat and onto a stretcher, and then her
father was there, rushing towards her, pulling her into a hug the likes of
which she hadn’t experienced from him since she was a little girl.
“Clarice! My darling child. I was so worried about you. I was so afraid to lose you.” He held her at arms length and looked her
over. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”
“No, Father, I’m fine,”
she answered evenly, and it was true. “The
blood isn’t mine. Mr. Solo and Mr.
Kuryakin were hurt protecting me.”
“Such fine men!” he
exclaimed, then turned to another man, older even than Clarice’s father, and
praised, “I feel the deepest gratitude toward and respect for your agents,
Alexander. I owe them a great deal.”
“Nonsense,” the man
harrumphed. “All in a day’s work.” He then turned to Napoleon, who was watching
his partner being wheeled towards an elevator.
“Mr. Solo, you look a frightful mess.
Please do take a moment to tidy yourself and then report to my office.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Waverly.”
The man looked at Clarice
and continued in his bossy way, “Come with me, young lady, and I’ll show you
where you’ll be staying until this bothersome matter is resolved.” He took her father’s arm, “Clarence,” and led
him away.
Clarice started to follow,
then stopped and looked back at Napoleon.
“Thank you for everything,” she said.
“You’re more than
welcome.” He continued with a
sympathetic tone, “If you’re upset about anything that happened …”
She interrupted, “I’m
not.” It wasn’t completely a lie. She’d been upset about a few things at the
time, but not any more. When someone was
willing to die for you, it put things in perspective. She felt the greatest gratitude toward and
respect for these men, too.
And her father might be
smart, but he didn’t know everything. He
wouldn’t approve of Illya and Napoleon if he knew more about them, but he could
be wrong about things and about people.
He could be wrong about her, too.
She would keep that in mind.
Clarice continued, “I’ve
grown up a lot since yesterday. I
learned more than I probably will the rest of the year in college. Or more important things, anyway. And I think you and Illya are fab.”
Napoleon grinned at her
and nodded his head in a salute.
“Likewise, I’m sure, Miss Farrell.”
She grinned back and
followed her father into the elevator.
~~**~~
A week later Clarice was
back on the St. Lawrence University campus, catching up on what she’d missed in
her absence.
Sitting at a table in the
library, her mind wandered back to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. She’d gone to the medical section to say
goodbye to Illya, who was half immobilized but mending nicely. Napoleon was there looking all spiffy again,
a regular cross between James Bond and Frank Sinatra. They had entertained her with more teasing
banter, then each given her a warm hug when she left.
It was funny to think that
the most terrifying experience of her life should also be one of the best. And it was funny to think that she could like
two men who were so different from her as much as she did. But not as funny as it would have seemed
before. Clarice had a new appreciation
for people who were different, who didn’t fit into the popular mold, who
weren’t afraid to be themselves.
Speaking of which, she saw
the girlfriends Hannah and Susan sitting together at another table and went
over to introduce herself. “I’m having a
little party in my dorm room on Friday,” she told them. “Just Cokes and chips and music, and maybe
some conversation. I’d like it if you
could come.”
At first they stared at
her in shock, like no one had ever been nice to them before. Then they smiled and accepted. Clarice went back to her books. She’d already invited Toshio, the Japanese
student who didn’t speak much English and Missy, the nerdy girl who was at the
top of the math class. There were a few
more people she wanted to ask; misfits, like herself, who didn’t fit in
anywhere.
People who didn’t fit in
anywhere yet, but they would. She had
that on good authority.
End
Please send
feedback or comment on
lj. Thanks!