Genre: Gen
Pairing: IK/F
Rating PG-13. For an NC-17 version: Click here.
Feedback is always welcome. Please, Please!
Translations and Notes follow at end of story.
-- Russian set off by double stars.
This story is a prequel to The Iron Gate Affair.
Artwork courtesy Agent Ross, Sepia and Ellen
To visit Ellen's web page for more art-Click here.
All new characters and the AU universe are the property of the writers involved, but may be borrowed with permission of the authors. If permission is granted, credit must be given in the new work.
Disclaimer: This page is an unofficial site that exists only for the fun of it. All characters and situations from the television show "The Man from U.N.C.L.E." are property of Norman Felton and Warner Bros. Nothing ill is intended by this use of any television characters in these amateur efforts. Any fiction linked to these pages is the intellectual property of the amateur author who created it and is not presented here for profit.
Illya sat in the semi-darkness in his apartment, trying to ignore the pain that had been nagging him since his departure from Medical barely 24 hours before. It lurked just outside his consciousness, ready to pounce on him in unguarded moments. The various injuries to both his arms, including his formerly dislocated left shoulder, taxed his ability to cope with the strain of the enforced inactivity.
The bright lights in the hospital had been particularly excruciating to him, further inflaming the injury to his bruised and blackened left eye. It took all of his concentration to ward off the ache that seemed to center behind it, concentration broken when the cheery staff nurses intruded to check his status. He wished Napoleon had not taken away his sleep darts; at least then, he would have had some recourse against their continual intrusions. Thankfully, the doctors had seen fit to dismiss him after 36 hours of 'observation' to allow him to recuperate in his own apartment.
Once home, the Russian used various distractions to keep the pain at bay: listening to music, reading in the dimly lit room, and translating various texts from his memory. Unfortunately, none of them seemed to be working, and now, a different misery was beginning to add to his problems. He found himself wondering about Samantha, where she was, what she was doing. Thoughts of her were continually creeping into his mind and he had a successively harder and harder time pushing them out.
As much as he hated being injured, he hated needing someone to take care of him even more. He knew he was a difficult patient at best, and did not want his dour attitude to infect his relationship with her. He swore he would not contact her until he could be the man she cared for, not some cranky, injured wreck that required her to care FOR him. He would not allow her to wait on him like some petty servant. In addition, he could not easily explain the source of the injuries without explaining more about his job.
Biting his lip, he once again tried to concentrate on the Russian novel he was attempting, unsuccessfully, to read.
**********
Samantha exited the parking garage where she had just left Toby's car. She had borrowed it earlier in the day, knowing she would have to go directly from her early afternoon class to his club. One of waitresses had needed to take time off for personal business and the blonde had volunteered to cover for her. Finding the hours crawling by as she waited for Illya to return from his latest 'business trip', she had readily agreed to the diversion. Missing the vast amount of time required by her studies during this first week of school, she felt the hours and days drag by. The few times that she worked in one of the family businesses did little to ease the feeling.
She took a few steps away from the building, easily navigating the nearly empty sidewalks. It was just before 3 p.m. and there were only a few pedestrians milling around. Children were still in school and the few businesses in the area were not drawing many customers. Among those few people walking through the neighborhood, Samantha could easily pick out Lucia, one of the two Italian women who shared an apartment in her building. Her flowing white hair made her stand out at any gathering. "Hello," she called, waving at the older woman as she crossed the street to talk to her.
"Well, hello, dear," the older woman responded, pulling her into a quick hug. "How are things with you and Illya?" she asked in Italian.
The blonde smiled at the white-haired woman, knowing that she had developed an almost grandmotherly affection, and watchfulness, toward her. "As well as can be expected, considering the situation," she replied, also in Italian. The older woman had learned early in Samantha and Illya's relationship that the couple faced long periods of separation and she often inquired about the situation between the two younger people.
"Then I'll let you get on back to him," Lucia commented, smiling. "He DID look like he needed extra help when I saw him yesterday afternoon."
Samantha grew confused and concerned. "You saw him yesterday?" she asked, her forehead knit in bewilderment.
"Yes, just getting out of his car in the garage. Even in that dark light, I could tell he was hurting." The older woman glanced at Samantha sympathetically as she added, "I knew between the bandages on his arms and the limp that he would be laid up for a while."
Samantha nodded distractedly, lost in her own thoughts. Yesterday had been Tuesday, a day when she did not have afternoon classes. She knew she had been home, studying, the entire time. He obviously didn't call, she realized. She struggled against dual feelings of concern and frustration as she quickly excused herself and hurried back into the garage.
As she hurried through the darkened structure and made her way to Illya's apartment, the young woman tried to force down her conflicting emotions. She could not understand why Illya was avoiding her. She had seen him hurt before, usually when he came back from business trips. On those times, he was always reticent to discuss the injuries. At first, she had thought he was participating in the same bondage games Pavel played. However, his reaction to pursuing a woman during that August trip had convinced her that he cared for her deeply and was not hiding some sort sexual incompatibility.
Rushing up to Illya's apartment, she knocked on the door. When no answer was forthcoming, she knocked again, calling "It's Samantha."
Illya had heard the first knock and was ignoring it. He did not feel like entertaining. However, the second knock, along with her plaintive call, drew the agent's attention to the door. He continued to lie on the couch in the darkened room, refusing to answer the door, hoping she would go away.
There was still no sign of movement from inside the apartment. She knocked a third time and then commanded, "Illya, let me in. I'm worried about you, lyubimyj."
Silence was still her only reply. Sighing, she decided to make one more attempt. "If you don't let me in, I'm going to conclude you can't for some reason and I'll have to find some other way in."
Realizing that she would do exactly that, Illya finally shuffled to the door. Unlocking it, he returned to the couch, "Come in if you must," he announced in as surly a tone as he could muster. While he hated being inhospitable to her, he simply did not want to field a barrage of questions about his various injuries and how he got them.
The odd greeting tugged at Samantha's heart, as did the man's seeming coolness toward her. Opening the door, she walked into the room, struck by the darkness of it. Once past the threshold, she paused, giving her eyes time to adjust as she automatically closed and locked the door behind her.
Illya fought to steel his heart against the rush of tender emotions he felt toward the girl. He had hoped to hide the seamier aspects of his profession from her. The last thing he wanted was for her to force the issue about exactly how detrimental his chosen field was to his health and well being.
After she became more accustomed to the absence of light in the room, Samantha used Illya's golden blond hair as a beacon to find him. As she approached him, she could see his puffy and swollen eye attempting to look at her. Attempting to control her emotions, she asked, "How long ago did you put any ice on that bruise?"
"I'll put some more on it after you leave." Illya responded evasively, his cold steel voice startling the girl as much as the depth and severity of the injuries that she could see. There were bandages on both his forearms, along with various odd color changes under his rumpled white shirt. She wondered just what other sections of his body were also bandaged, hurt or both.
The Russian's tone was cold and grim, an aspect of his personality that the young woman had never seen before. Definitely not a good patient, she concluded, understanding that she might have to be equally forceful since she planned to stay.
"You're not waiting that long," Samantha replied, her voice clearly reflecting her disapproval as she entered the kitchen. After fashioning a makeshift icepack with a kitchen towel, she returned to the living room. Seeing that the blond had moved to the couch, she moved to his side. Crouching down beside him, she handed the pack to Illya, watching as he applied it gently to his battered eye. Trying to mimic his cold demeanor, she peered at him and asked, "Was this professional, or did someone want to make a personal point?"
Samantha's determined stance in the face of his decidedly cool reception temporarily disoriented the agent. Realizing she had a right to know that he had not run afoul of some local miscreant, he replied "Professional." He forced his answer to be clipped and devoid of any of the affection he felt for the woman.
Samantha nodded in acknowledgement. She was thankful that his injuries were not the result of a 'discussion' with one of the local bigots or from his intervention in some other activity in the neighborhood. "And what orders did the doctor give you for your care?" she asked, settling in on the floor next to the couch.
Illya sent her a scathing look as she took up residence next to him, a look she seemingly ignored. "Nothing I can't handle," he answered, assuming it would be the final word on the issue. Before, she had always accepted his need for privacy where his health was concerned and he saw no reason for this conversation to be any different. Granted, the bandages covered more of his body on this occasion, but she HAD seen him injured before. In those cases, she had never pushed to discover the cause or the treatment.
Samantha did not intend to back down, however. His injuries were far too extensive to allow him that luxury. "And you are planning to follow them all by yourself?" she asked, her tone equally as clipped as Illya's had been previously.
"The doctor would have kept me under observation if he felt I could not take care of myself," he replied, evading the main question.
Samantha quickly noticed that his speech pattern had become more formal, more stilted. Unsure of what that development meant, she noted it and continued. "The mood you're in, the nurses were probably ready to wring your neck, so he discharged you to save your life." The look on Illya's face told her that there was a grain of truth in her statement.
The Russian rankled at the implied criticism. "You should not feel that you HAVE to take care of me," he shot back, exasperated at Samantha's continuing interest in his medical condition.
"That's what people do when they care for each other, they take care OF each other!" Samantha crossed her arms in front of her, scowling at him in frustration. Was he so used to being alone that help was now difficult to accept?
Illya removed the ice pack from his face and set it on the end table next to the couch. The couple glowered each other in silence while he struggled for and adequate response to her comment. He did not want to be a burden to her and she seemed to be insulted by the fact he wanted to save her not only from his injury induced foul mood, but also from the medical drudgery. It was not a reaction he had expected and was at a loss as to how to proceed.
A loud knock on the door interrupted their discussion. After a quick glance at the door, the Russian silently nodded in the direction of the bedroom. The only people that knew he was at home in the middle of the day were members of the U.N.C.L.E. staff and he did not want Samantha to meet them.
Samantha shot a questioning look at Illya. In response, he repeated his early nod. With an angry snort, she grabbed her purse and stalked into the bedroom. Why does he feel he needs to protect me, she wondered as she started to ease the door shut. If the visitor posed a threat, she could possibly be of assistance. This was especially true now, with his skills impaired by his recent injuries. All the other explanations she could think of were equally as confusing.
When the Russian saw the door to the bedroom start to swing close, he struggled to his feet. Limping to the entry door to the apartment, he cast a quick glance in the direction of the bedroom. After assuring himself that Samantha was indeed hidden, he slowly turned his attention back to whoever was knocking.
She had not completely shut the door, however, leaving a half-inch slit between the door and its frame. After removing her gun from her purse, she peered out of the opening, watching for any hint of danger that the visitor might present.
Looking out the peephole in the door, Illya was relieved to find Napoleon standing on the other side of the entryway. Undoing the lock as quickly as he could, he ushered his partner in. Although he would have enjoyed introducing Samantha to Napoleon, he knew he could not. The older man was technically still his boss, after all, and any long-term future with Samantha was incompatible with his field agent status. If he were to lose that, he faced a possible recall to the Soviet Union. No, keeping him in the dark, both literally and figuratively, was the logical course of action at this point.
"Come in," the Russian said, greeting the man with a slight smile. Nodding his head toward the couch, he added, "Please sit while I get you a drink."
Shaking his head in response, Napoleon replied, "No, you sit, I'll get the drink." A teasing grin appeared on his face as he watched the younger man hobble to the couch. "It's not like I don't know my way around your apartment. It's not exactly complex." Turning his back to the Russian, he took the few steps required to reach the 'kitchen' area in Illya's open floor plan apartment. He opened the cabinet that he knew held the glasses and removed one. As he retrieved the bottle of Scotch from the next cabinet over and poured himself a glass, the dark haired agent asked, "Would you like something while I'm in here?"
"No," called Illya as he lowered himself onto the couch. Gritting his teeth, he reclined on the sofa. After glancing toward the bedroom to make sure the door was still closed, he returned his attention to Napoleon, who was still in the 'kitchen', his back turned.
After preparing the drink, the American returned to the 'living room' section of the apartment. Lowering himself into one of the chairs, the older man took a sip of his Scotch, enjoying the alcohol burning the back of his throat as he swallowed it. Smiling at Illya, he commented, "I can't stay long. I just want to check on you before I go off to get ready for my date."
"And which member of the secretarial pool with be the recipient of your slightly less than honorable attentions tonight?" the Russian inquired, a faintest hint of a smile curling the corner of his mouth.
Napoleon playfully placed his right hand over his heart. "You wound me, sir" he replied in mock consternation. Grinning at his partner, he added, "Medical, not secretarial this time. I find there are a lot of hurt feelings in the nursing staff after one of your visits. I'm just trying to improve morale and make up for my, shall we say, difficult partner."
"So glad my injuries are fodder for your romantic endeavors," Illya replied wryly.
"I'm sure most of the nurses in medical would be more than willing to help in your medical recovery if you were to ask," the dark haired man commented, a knowing smirk on his face. Despite his usually rude treatment of the nursing staff, Solo knew most of them would be overjoyed if presented with an opportunity to serve as his 'private' nurse. A chance to connect to the usually reserved agent would make the harassment acceptable.
Illya cast an awkward glance away from the older man. Through the corner of his eye, he checked the door to the bedroom, making sure it was still closed as he wondered just how much of the conversation Samantha could hear from her location. If she heard any part of their exchange, she might have additional cause for alarm.
Napoleon noticed the Russian's quick eye movement, wondering what was bothering the man. The pair had only been partners a few months, but he had already seen the younger man suffer silently through incidents that would bring a lesser man to his knees. However, he had also seen the extremes the younger agent would go to avoid showing any weakness. His inattentiveness to the doctor's discharge instructions was just one example of the Russian's stubbornness. Illya's demeanor when Solo had picked him from medical the day before had convinced the senior partner that the blond had no attention of carrying out those orders. He had been forced to 'pull rank' to require the Russian even accept a written version of the orders.
Napoleon had hoped that there would be some friend of the recalcitrant Russian taking care of the headstrong young man. To find him alone disquieted the CEA and he considered how to broach the subject.
"I have no need of the nurses' tender mercies, Napoleon." Illya countered. "I can take care of myself."
Napoleon smiled indulgently at his partner. "And exactly do you propose to tie off the bandages on your wrists? Using your teeth?"
The Russian frowned at the older man, glowering at him through barely open eyes. "I will not be alone," he vowed, his voice barely audible.
"You mean you have found someone willing to brave your moods when you are injured? Just where did you find this angel of mercy with nerves of steel and masochistic tendencies?" Solo asked, unsure if anyone would be strong enough to stand up the his partner's foul disposition when he was in need of medical help.
"My friend should be seeing to my needs very soon," Illya responded evasively. He knew he could not explain Samantha's presence in his life, or even in his apartment without risking Napoleon finding out just how deep his affections for her ran. THAT disclosure would be too awkward to contemplate.
Hoping the younger agents 'friend' would be there quickly, the American decided to cut the visit short. He vowed, however, to return at lunch the next day to check on his headstrong younger partner. He suspected his statement about having someone see to his medical needs was a ruse to end the conversation.
Downing the rest of his drink in one gulp, he said, "I'll be going now." After standing up, he added, "Are you sure you're okay alone until I can check on your tomorrow?"
"It is quite unnecessary for you to check on me tomorrow," the blond responded. His tone was a little more forceful than he intended. The combination of his pain, the lack of sleep and stress from dealing with the current situation was taking his toll on whatever social grace Illya had in reserve.
"Humor me," replied the dark haired agent, casting one of his most charming smiles at the younger man. "Or, think of it as humoring the CEA, if you will." He felt that this mysterious friend might just be a ploy on the headstrong young man's part to avoid having to accept medical help from him. However, contrary to popular belief, the older U.N.C.L.E. agent did not have a death wish and would not be mentioning that fact to his obstinate partner.
Napoleon pulling rank on him convinced Illya more than ever that he had to keep his relationship with Samantha under wraps. "I'll be fine," the Russian responded, slowly rising to his feet. He followed his partner to the door, filled with mixed emotions. While he disliked being rude to either of his guests, he also didn't want the two of them to meet. In addition, Napoleon's departure would mean a return to the openly hostile discussion that he and Samantha had been having at the time of his arrival. It was not a conversation he was looking forward to resuming.
******************
The Double Blond Affair Part 9b
******************
September 9, 1959
While the Russian haltingly escorted his partner to the door and locked up after his departure, Samantha stood in shock, staring out the small opening she had left between the door and frame. She had noted several times in the conversation where Illya could have mentioned her presence in his life, but he had not. That fact, when combined with his insistence that she remove herself to the bedroom, made her wonder about his reasoning.
Suddenly, a vile thought crept into her mind. He is ASHAMED of me for some reason, she decided. The frustration and shock she had felt before was gone, replaced by white-hot fury. Good enough to share your bed, but not your life, is that it, she fumed as she fought for self-control. She knew if she spoke to Illya now, she would have little hope of controlling her emotions.
Samantha realized she was still holding her handgun. After clicking the safety into place, she angrily shoved the weapon back into her purse. Biding her time, she waited for him to settle on the couch before she left the bedroom. In that way, if she still felt as openly combative as she did now, she could leave. She realized she needed to compose herself before they talked.
She watched Illya secure the door behind Napoleon and limped back to the sofa, as she had expected. Her heart sank as he struggled to sit down.
The Russian called, "He's gone, Samantha," as he tried to find a comfortable position on the battered couch.
Taking a deep breath, she stomped out of the bedroom, heading for the front door. Her face was contorted into a mask of fury as she shot back, "So am I!" She headed straight toward the door, not daring to glance in the Russian's direction. She knew that if she did, her barely controlled emotions would overcome her failing reserve.
When Samantha reached the door, her entire body shook as her feelings threatened to overwhelm her. As her quaking hands fumbled with the lock, the young woman blinked, trying to clear the unshed tears clouding her vision.
Illya watched as she sprinted across the room, knowing she was in no condition to leave. "Samantha, wait" he called, his voice catching in his throat. Ignoring his recent injuries, he quickly rose to his feet, scrambling toward the obviously upset woman. After the first tentative step, the side of his injured leg smashed against the coffee table, and a wave of pain coursed up his body. Sucking a ragged breath through his teeth, he continued to stagger toward the door on pain-wobbled legs.
Hearing Illya's plaintive call, followed by his sharp intake of air, Samantha turned away from the door. She watched, frozen in place, as Illya awkwardly moved toward her, his face even paler than it had been before. Her anger quickly dissipated as she remembered the original reason for her visit. Forcing herself forward, she hurried to the Russian, slipping an arm around his waist. In response, he draped his bandaged right forearm over her shoulders. "Let's get you to sit down," she murmured softly as she guided both of them back to the couch.
Easing himself down onto the sofa, Illya gently pressed his arm against Samantha's shoulders, silently directing her to sit with him. Doing as he requested, she sat down on the couch beside the Russian. Other than allowing him to leave his arm wrapped around her, she made no attempt at further intimacies.
Sitting in silence next to the Russian, the young woman tossed several possible questions around in her mind. She struggled to find the precise one, hoping to find the answers she wanted, no, needed to hear from him. Finally, blinking back tears, she inquired, "Who are you ashamed of, him or me?"
Samantha's heartfelt question tore through Illya's pain fogged mind. Looking into her tear filled eyes, he could easily see the anguish in them. "I'm not ashamed of either of you," he responded, using his bandaged forearm to try to pull her closer.
Swallowing hard, she remained unmoved, staring into his deep blue eyes. "You have to admit that you didn't want us to meet, and I'd like to know why," she explained, fighting to keep her voice as even as possible.
Illya nodded. He struggled against the pain racking his brain to determine exactly how much to explain to Samantha. Deciding to frame his answer as much as possible around Napoleon and the rules of their job, without divulging any unnecessary details about U.N.C.L.E, he began. "That man was Napoleon, my partner at work. Not only is he my partner, he is also my supervisor." Halting briefly, he looked at the woman in his arms to make sure she understood the complexity such an arrangement would entail.
Samantha tried to put her first impression of the handsome man into words. Looking past his rather unique first name, she could tell from his actions that Illya felt the man was a friend and not an overly noisy co-worker. If the Russian had not cared about the taller man, he would have shut down his inquiries almost immediately. Smiling weakly at him, she commented, "That could be rough on both of you, juggling your loyalties. How can you complain to your partner about your boss, or vice versa." Samantha tried to fathom exactly how such a situation might affect his reaction to the man.
Nodding again, Illya added, "That arrangement makes the dynamic between he and I unusual at times, especially when I have been hiding things from him."
"Are you talking about your relationship with me?" she asked, still confused as to why he would feel he had to shield their affection for each other from Napoleon.
"Yes," Illya replied softly, his voice barely above a whisper.
Could Illya know whether the man had lost someone important to him, she wondered. If that were the situation, Illya's empathy was, one again, proving to be one of his most endearing qualities. "Why are you hiding that from him?"
"At work there are rules in place that dictate how I act, even off duty." As the look of confusion on Samantha's face grew even more pronounced, he added, "For example, if and when we marry, I have to give up my field work."
Her eyes widened in surprise. "Why, that's draconian!" she sputtered, tightening her grip on Illya's waist. "Your off-duty time should be your own."
Gazing into Samantha's face, the Russian grew quiet. "That's not all of it," he finally added, his voice edged with disappointment. "If I lose my field status, I could be sent back to the Soviet Union."
Gently placing a hand on the cheek that wasn't bruised, the young woman stroked it gently. "You mean, we could be sent there, if we were married, right?" she whispered softly as she smiled at him.
This time, Illya's eyes widened in surprise. He was very familiar with the concept of husbands and wives being separated for political purposes. If such a thing happened to them after their marriage, he assumed they would reunite when he found his way back to the west. If his return was not voluntary, but was a recall due to his losing his position at U.N.C.L.E, he would not exactly be welcomed with open arms. An American wife would be even less welcome. In fact, Samantha might have to surrender her U.S. citizenship to enter the country. "We might end having to stay there forever, never being able to leave ever again. If that were the case, would you still be willing to go there with me?" he asked, his tone betraying how stunned he was by her comment.
"Of course, I would!" Samantha answered, pressing a soft kiss on his cheek. "If we were married, we would be a family, and that's what families do. They stay together, take care of each other. Not that I wouldn't want to stay in the city, but I suspect you would like to stay here too, if you had a choice."
Illya nodded his agreement. "New York is my home now."
Samantha smiled and added, "Let's just hope that they have either abolished that rule, or we find a way around it when we want to start our married life together."
"When we want to," Illya echoed as he placed his forehead gently against hers. He now had no doubt that he and Samantha would forge a future together, even if they could not legally marry.
Illya found the concept of Samantha being forced to move to the Soviet Union totally unacceptable. While she could probably withstand the political repression and harsh conditions there, he knew the separation from her family would be intolerable. They were her true strength and he could not, in all good conscience, ask her to leave them. If the cost of their marriage included a one-way trip back to Moscow, the price was too high. They would have to come to some other arrangement.
Samantha knew she could easily turn Illya's words against him by reminding the man of his assurances to his partner that he would allow his 'friend' to care for his injuries. Hoping she did not have to resort to such an obvious ploy, Samantha closed her eyes, trying to decide how to proceed.
The couple held each other in silence for several minutes, until she asked softly, "Now, will you please let me take care of those injuries of yours?" Illya immediately started to stiffen, until he saw the hopeful look on her face. A weak smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he replied, "Yes, you may. Someone told me once that people who care about each other do that."
***************
Samantha finished tying off the last bandage on Illya's forearms, thankful the doctor had documented each insult to his body and the care for it. The depth of punishment his slight frame had withstood boggled her mind. If she had relied on the Russian for a recitation of his injuries, she knew he would have omitted the majority of them. When she had seen the doctor's list, she had wondered how he had endured an ordeal that produced such massive injuries. Now, seeing the depth of the injuries now that his shirt and pants were removed, the question became even stronger.
The doctor's list included several injuries she had not seen when she first arrived -- burns to both forearms, a knife wound in his left leg and a full range of scrapes and bruises on his entire body. These were in addition to the massive amount of bruises she could see on his face and hands. His left shoulder had also been dislocated. Thankfully, the medical personal had been able to reset it in its proper location without further damage.
The couple had migrated to the bedroom, where Samantha hoped Illya might be able to relax. She knew he could not be totally comfortable, between the pain of the injuries and the fact that he had to be looked after, but at least she could take steps that might insure some degree of solace. Now seeing him, she could understand his logic; several of her brothers were equally as uncomfortable around caregivers when ill.
Moving slowly, she lowered herself onto the queen sized bed next to Illya. She tucked her bare feet under her as she watched Illya attempt to distance himself mentally from the ravages that his body had suffered.
Leaning over the agent to remove the ice pack she had placed on the bruised and battered left side of his face at the start of her ministrations, she smiled down at him. "I'm done, for now," she explained, pulling a blanket over the barely dressed man.
Samantha placed the ice pack in a nearby bowl, one she had brought in especially for that purpose. Returning her attention to Illya, she asked, "Do you want to sit up, or stay on your back like that."
"A nurse that gives the patient a choice!" he teased. "You haven't been at this long, have you?"
"Maybe you can figure out the answer from my bedside manner," she replied, leaning over to kiss him gently on his unbruised cheek. Deciding that Illya intended to stay on his back, Samantha stretched out next to him, laying her head on his bare right shoulder. "Guess I AM a little out of practice. Haven't had to work on anybody hurt this bad since Toby and I were down south."
"You were just a child!" exclaimed Illya, startled by the revelation. Turning his head toward her, he looked at her questioningly.
"If it weren't for the injuries, Toby and I wouldn't have been adopted by Mama and Papa, so it all worked out in the end," the woman replied, fatalistically.
"Those two events don't seem to be connected." Illya stated. "However, the little bit I know about your family would make anything possible."
Laughing, Samantha decided to gloss over the seamier events surrounding her adoption and simply explained, "When Toby was in the hospital the last time, one of the social workers went to great lengths to find us a family. Nothing seemed to work, until she remembered a family she had worked with back when she lived in New York. They were known to help children that were otherwise branded as difficult to handle."
"I have trouble thinking of you as a troublesome child," the Russian commented, running his fingers lazily over Samantha's shoulder and upper arm.
"I really wasn't, except that I did what I needed to do to stay with Toby and keep him healthy. Sometime, because of the segregation, that was next to impossible."
Realizing their discussion was beginning to hint at the problems she had as a child, Samantha decided she needed to change the subject, and quickly. She knew exactly how to go about it. "Enough about my misspent youth, unless you are willing to reciprocate," she said, rubbing her cheek against the agent's shoulder. She knew that, like her, he was a private person who was loath to discuss any personal history.
"I don't want to bore you with stories from my youth," Illya replied, his voice growing softer with every word.
"I doubt if your stories would be boring, but I'll let that slide," the young woman commented, pleased that they would no longer be discussing her early years. Wishing she knew more about his childhood, however, she added, "Someday, we'll have to compare notes on growing up in orphanages in the United States and Soviet Union."
"Maybe someday," he replied, realizing the discussion might be uncomfortable for both of them when the topic came up again.
Lifting herself up on one elbow, she smiled down at him and asked, "How about a massage to ease away some of those aches and pains?"
"That sounds marvelous," Illya replied contentedly. Slipping the blanket covering the agent back down to the foot of the bed, Samantha lifted herself completely from the bed, allowing him to position his injured body as best he could as she set about planning how to proceed.
Easing himself slowly from his current position to his stomach, he prepared himself for the relaxation that would eventually come as Samantha kneaded his stiff and painful muscles. As he lay on the bed, he was surprised to find she was not employing traditional massage techniques, but instead was applying pressure at selective points along his body.
"This is not the kind of massage I was expecting," he commented, feeling oddly exhilarated by the unusual routine.
"I thought a regular massage might be too painful with all your bumps and bruises. I decided to use this alternate technique first," she explained, tenderly stretching and pressing sections of his body as they talked.
"It seems like acupressure," Illya commented, feeling her gentle ministrations began to ease his weariness. His tensions rapidly disappearing, he luxuriated in the sensations she was creating within him.
"Similar, except that is Chinese and this is Japanese. It's called Shiatsu massage. Knowledge of it has been handed down in Mama's family for generations." Continuing to manipulate the Russian's pressure points, Samantha added, "I think a regular massage would be a little rough on you right now. Maybe, in a couple days, when some of the bruises go down, we can try it, if you want to." She fought the desire she was starting to feel as she worked on his sore and weary body; another activity that would have to wait, she concluded.
Contended, he murmured, "Whatever you think, **lyubimyj**." A soft sigh escaped from Illya's lips as the effects of the massage continued to grow.
Realizing that he was starting to feel the aftermath of the healing touches, Samantha leaned over and pressed her lips against the Russian's shoulder. "Relax now, **lyubimyj**. We can talk more later about orphanages and family and other things like that." Stretching out on the bed beside Illya, she watched his features soften as slumber began to overtake him. She was always struck by the transformation in his features as he drifted off, changing from the steel edged man she knew he was capable of being, to the gentle, caring person that lurked behind his icy reserve.
"MMMM," he purred, drowsiness setting in. "Before we get married…." Illya's voice trailed off as he fought against surrendering to his body's demand for sleep. Now that he had he next to him, and she was no longer angry, he wanted to luxuriate in the feeling. Both his mind and body craved sleep; he could feel his control slipping as the conversation moved into areas he did not usually discuss.
A smile flitting across her face, Samantha asked hopefully, "Have you been thinking about that?"
"Yes," the Russian murmured, running his hands over Samantha's shoulder, hoping the movement would keep sleep at bay. "You will make an excellent wife to some lucky man. I wish I could be that man."
His simple statement of intent convinced the woman that he, like her, had thoughts of a future together. She realized that, although neither was pushing the point, they would be able to work through any problems that might show up in the months and years to come. "I think you would make a great husband too. We'll just have to be patient and see what works out for us. I'll willing to wait, **Lyubimyj**."
"For years?" he asked, fatigue now clearly affecting his speech.
"I can be as patient as you need me to be," she replied, mimicking one of their earliest conversations. "I know you have to work around your job, and your immigrations status. I don't want 'us' to be another thing you have to work around."
"Maybe not till I'm 40," Illya explained, his sleep-deprived mind no longer forming complete sentences. "Then I lose field agent status."
Brushing her lips against his shoulder, Samantha replied, "If that is what it takes. Family doesn't need a piece of paper to say they belong together. They just do." Looking up into his sleep-heavy eyes, Samantha watched Illya drift off as she lay next to him. Finally, she nodded off herself, picturing what their future might be like.
******************
The Double Blond Affair Part 9c
******************
September 10, 1959
The early morning chill seeped into Illya's small bedroom, waking the injured agent from his first sustained sleep in days. Often waking up in strange places during his assignments, he was developing the ability to ascertain his surroundings without appearing to be awake. Lying on his back, his mind still groggy, the blond could feel the cold air settle against his right side. Without looking, he instantly realized he was lying on top of the bed in his shorts, and something was covering his left side. No, someone, he concluded, as the prior night flashed through his memory: it was Samantha. During the night, she had curled up on his shoulder and side, seeking out his warmth as the room became increasingly frosty.
Cracking his eyes open, Illya glanced over at the slumbering blonde, watching her sleep. He smiled, amused by the childlike demeanor she had assumed as she snuggled close to his chest. The blond knew that when he was with her, he could occasionally show the jovial side of his personality, the gentler side he felt he had to hide from the people at work. With them, the Russian was required to be the aloof, professional agent, misdirecting their attention from his shorter height and Soviet nationality. With her, he could let his true persona escape from behind the self-imposed mask he usually kept in place. He hoped that someday he could reach that same level of trust with Napoleon.
Not wanting to wake her, he decided to cover them as best he could by reversing the bedding, curling it up and over them. Deciding to cover her first, he tried to avoid jarring her as he leaned over to reach the bedspread behind her. After he gently rearranged the bedding and settled back into place, Illya was surprised to see Samantha looking up at him, her smile barely visible in the minimal pre-dawn lighting in the room.
"Good morning," she murmured, placing her hands against his bare chest. Almost as soon as they lighted there, she could feel a shudder course through his body. "Are you cold?" she asked oh so innocently, starting to fake pulling them back.
Grabbing her rapidly retreating fingers, he placed them back on his chest, smiling shyly. "No, that's not it," he replied. His shy smile shifted into a slightly amorous one.
"MMMM," she purred in acknowledgement, starting to massage his chest. In response, Illya moved his hand to her hips, cupping her buttocks through the heavy material of her jeans.
"One of us seems to be overdressed," he teased, playfully as he gently stroked her.
Continuing to feign innocence as her eyes sparkled in merriment, Samantha quipped, "But how will I stay warm?" Removing her hands from his chest, she draped her arms around his neck, edging closer.
"I know something to keep us both warm," he responded in the best scholarly tone he could manage at that moment, starting to unhook the buttons of her blouse.
"How very ingenious of you," she playfully retorted, burying her hands in his hair as she moved closer still, pressing her ample chest onto his. In doing so, however, she inadvertently blocked his hand from her blouse.
Illya sent the blankets scattering as he flipped Samantha onto her back. Burying his face in her hair as he renewed his efforts to unbutton her blouse, he whispered, "I want to take care of you, now and forever," referring to their conversation the previous day.
"Now and forever," she sighed, running her hands over his naked back and shoulders. "Sounds perfect."
Spurred on by her agreement, Illya gave Samantha a passionate kiss, the beginnings of another session of mutual satisfaction and enjoyment.
***********
Their lovemaking over, the couple snuggled together. After rearranging the scattered bedding over them, Illya embraced Samantha, placing her head on his shoulder. Suddenly unsure of how to express his feelings for the woman, the Russian decided to quote one of his favorite poems. "Had we but world enough, and time," he recited, hoping to convey how frustrated he was by the rules that kept them apart.
Kissing him lightly on the chest, Samantha replied, "We'll have our time, we just have to be patient." Deciding to also use a literary comment to prove her point, Samantha quoted, "All good things come to those who wait." Turning her head up to face him, she explained, "When we were down south, I waited half my life to call Toby my brother publicly. You aren't asking for anywhere near that much time." Smiling broadly at him, the shapely young woman added, "And WE are definitely a good thing."
Illya wrapped his arms around her, ignoring the protests of his still tender wrists as he pulled her close. "Yes, we are." After kissing her gently, he smiled and added, "We most certainly are."
Luxuriating in the afterglow of their lovemaking, the couple started to fall asleep again. Suddenly, Samantha bolted up in the bed. Surprised by her quick movement, Illya also sprang up. "Is there something wrong, beloved?" he asked in Russian, instantly reaching toward the nightstand where he kept a backup gun.
Drawing his attention back to her by slipping her arms around his waist, she replied, also in Russian, "No, beloved, nothing. I just remembered we are at your place, not mine." Shooting her a questioning glance, Illya settled down in the bed next to her. In response to his questioning look, she added, "I have to stop back home to get ready for school. I don't have any clothes here, and I know I'm not going to anytime soon."
Relieved by the fact that Samantha understood they could not have the same freedom at his apartment that they had at hers, the blond was troubled with nagging questions of how she deduced that fact. "That's true, but how do you come to that conclusion?" he asked softly.
"Since they can't know about me, any clothes found in your apartment would be, by default, yours. Can't have them thinking you, uh, act like Mary, and prefer men, can we?" she explained haltingly.
Kissing her gently, he replied, "No, we can't have that." Running his hand over her breast, he added, "I don't want men, or women for that matter," placing extra emphasis on the plural women. "I have mine, now and forever."
Sighing contentedly as her eyes drifted close, she leaned into his hand. Just as her passion began to flare, she pulled away, grumbling, "If we want to have breakfast together before I leave, we better get up." Snagging Illya's discarded shirt from the night before, Samantha slipped it on while the Russian put on his robe. Hand and hand, they walked out of the bedroom.
*********************
After Samantha left, Illya drifted back off to sleep. As he did, an idea began to form. By the time he woke several hours later, the plan was fully formed and he was ready to act on it. Reaching for the phone, he began to dial an all to familiar number.
*****************
By the time Napoleon arrived for lunch, Illya had once again assumed the demeanor the man was familiar with: cool, detached, unemotional. He forced his pain to a corner of him mind, ignoring it, instead thinking of the pleasant morning he had spent with Samantha. Fighting back a grin, the blond answered the door and greeted his partner dispassionately.
After ordering the injured agent to the 'living room', Napoleon began to work in the 'kitchen', setting out the lunch he had brought. Arranging the simple meal of hero sandwiches and chips on dinner plates, he began to search through the refrigerator.
Turning toward the kitchen, Illya peered at his partner over the back of the couch as he asked, "What are you doing?"
"Looking for the ketchup and mustard for the sandwiches," replied the brunette, continuing to forage for the condiments.
Rolling his eyes, Illya commented, "None for me please. I actually like to taste what I am eating."
Finally finding the items, Napoleon called, "Suit yourself," as he closed the fridge. After liberally applying the condiments to his own sandwich, he returned the bottles to their rightful places.
Bringing out the plates to the 'living room', he set them on the coffee table in front of the couch. As they ate, Solo watched the blond for telltale signs of his usually vehement reactions to his medical restrictions. He was surprised to see the Russian almost calm, a radical change from his normal post-injury behavior. If he didn't know that the stubborn agent routinely threw away painkillers, he would suspect that the young man was under the influence of some sort of drug.
Noticing changes in the bandages on Illya's arm, Napoleon began to suspect the reason for his relaxed mood. Hoping to not offend his taciturn partner with the obvious locker room quality to his question, he asked, "Were you lucky enough to have some attractive young lady come and take care of you last night?"
"Trust you Americans to equate romantic endeavors with luck. Some of us not fortunate enough to be blessed with a handsome face and natural charm have to actually spend time thinking and planning such things." Illya responded between hurriedly taken bites.
Well, his appetite is back, Solo observed. "Are you planning something?" he asked.
Illya considered avoiding that question, as he had the prior one, but realized Napoleon might see his continued reticence as an insult. Pondering how to answer the question, without accidentally informing the agent of his relationship with Samantha, he finally replied, "Thinking, not planning. Do you ever wonder what we are giving up by choosing field work over marriage?" Knowing his future plans were definitely at the mercy of others, both in New York and Russia, he still wanted a life with the woman. What would happen when he turned 40, including a possible recall to Moscow, was not a subject the agent liked to dwell on.
It was now Solo's turn to grow quiet. "I know what I'm giving up," he replied, his voice barely audible.
Shocked by his usually glib partner's retreat into near-silence, Illya quickly decided to drop the subject. After a brief pause, the blond asked about the other man's day at work and the agent, smiling, regaled his injured partner with an animated recitation of the events at HQ.
*****************
After Napoleon returned to work, Illya stretched out on the couch, the one comfortable piece of furniture in the living room. Attempting to read an issue of a scientific journal he had received the month before, he found his mind wandering. Unlike yesterday, however, his lack of concentration was not due to any pain; it was due to his plan.
He had just finished rereading the same paragraph for the third time, when there was a series of loud knocks on the door. Realizing who might be behind the strong, emphatic knocking, Illya smiled and moved slowly toward the door.
"Who is it?" Illya called through the closed door.
"Mary, you silly goose. Now let me in before Sami gets done working at the club," was the response from the other side of the entryway.
Unsure if he had been insulted or not, the blond opened the door. Casting a questioning look in her direction, he was relieved to see a bubbly expression on her face, and a large, commercially wrapped present tucked under her left arm. Mary quickly stepped into the apartment, slipping her oversized purse off her right shoulder and setting it down next to the entrance. By the time Illya had shut the door behind her, he found himself drawn into a one-armed hug.
"I think you'll like them," she exclaimed excitedly, practically bouncing with enthusiasm as she grinned down at him. She placed the heavy box in the Russian's hands. He was surprised by the heft of the package, and that Mary could handle such a large parcel so easily, forgetting for the moment that Mary was actually a man under all the makeup and frills.
"The question is, will she like it?" asked Illya, examining the elaborately wrapped box that she had handed him.
Pushing at him playfully, she responded, "Of course she will! I wouldn't buy something for her that she didn't like. That's why you called, remember?"
Illya fought to keep both feet planted on the floor during Mary's playful roughhousing. The movement brought a twinge of pain to his injured leg and, before Illya could squelch the feeling, it was reflected, for a brief second, on his face.
The drag queen's eyes snapped open in alarm. "I'm so sorry!" she declared, reaching out one of her oversized hands to place it under his elbow for support. "You said you were a little incapacitated and that is why I needed to do the shopping for you. Can you forgive me?"
"Of course. I also think you enjoy shopping for such things much more than I do, even though I am feeling much better now."
"I notice you are not feeling so good that you would turn down Sami's offer of help," Mary observed wryly.
I may be injured, but I'm not mentally deranged," the blond responded, knowing how important it was in Samantha's family to take care of each other. "How much was the present?"
Mary shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "Just buy an extra round of drinks when we get together next time and we'll call it square." At the look of consternation on the Russian's face, she quickly corrected, "OK, make it two."
Illya reluctantly nodded his agreement, assuming that Mary was uncomfortable with discussions about money. Walking into the 'living room', he leaned over the back of the couch and sat down the package and one of the cushions. "Would you like a drink?" he asked as he returned to stand next to the statuesque faux brunette.
"I'm sorry, I don't have the time. I have to go take a shower and get ready for a date tonight. Takes a lot of work to get to be this gorgeous."
"And you do it so well," the Russian responded flatteringly as he crossed back to the doorway. He was truly amazed at the excellent skills Mary had at makeup and disguise. Wishing he could compare notes with the talented man, he couldn't find the pretext that would open such a conversation. Making a mental note to find some way to oblique discuss the matter in the future, Illya smiled at 'her' with sincere affection.
Mary smiled shyly and teased, "And here I thought Russian's didn't know how to be charming. I can easily see what Sami sees in you."
Shyly looking down at the ground, Illya whispered, "Thank you. Your sister is a marvelous woman and I'm lucky to have met her."
"Something tells me she's lucky to have found you too. Now, I really must go," Mary commented, bending to pick up her purse. Turning sideways to face the blond, she added, "Oh, I forgot something." Reaching into her large sized purse, she retrieved another smaller package and handed it to him. "I wanted to be the first to give you a congratulations present," she explained, beaming at him.
"Do you want me to open it now or can I wait until Samantha is here?" Illya asked, still eyeing the smaller, much lighter package.
Smiling, she commented, "You better wait. You can't do much with it until she gets here. At least I hope you can't." With that cryptic answer, and a quick, "So long," Mary let herself out and shut the door behind her.
*****************
Illya was lying on the couch, staring at the second present as it sat on the coffee table in front of him. He simply could not fathom what it was. Hearing a series of light footsteps in the hall outside his apartment, he lumbered to the entranceway as quickly as his injured leg would allow. Before he could reach it, he heard Samantha call, "It's me, Illya."
The Russian opened the door immediately, finding her standing outside his apartment, balancing three bags of groceries. Ignoring her hiss of protest, he grabbed two of the bags and walked into the kitchen.
"I see you are planning a good dinner," he commented, peering into the sacks as he set them down on the counter."
Smiling, she replied, "Between the two of us, I think we can come up with something marvelous," as she followed him into the kitchen.
Taking the last package away from her and setting it on the counter, he slipped his free arm around her waist. Burying his head in her hair, he sighed, "Everything we do together is marvelous!"
Leaning into him, she purred, "Yes, it is." She began to run her hands over his arms and shoulders, luxuriating in the feel of his lips as they laid a sting of fiery kisses down her neck.
"We should really take care of the groceries," he murmured, running his hands slowly over her waist and hips.
Sighing, Samantha replied, "Yes, I guess we should," as she dropped her hands away from Illya's shoulders and placed them on his waist.
They began putting away the food Samantha had brought. Each accidental brush of their hands, each light touch, brought a new round of caresses and kisses. Finally, however, the task was completed and they walked out of the kitchen, holding hands.
"I have a present for you," Illya declared as they walked the few steps it took to reach the couch.
Looking over at the boxes setting on the coffee table, she replied, "Two boxes worth, I see."
Leading her down onto the couch, the Russian explained, "Well, no, the smaller box is for both of us from Mary."
"When did she stop by?" Samantha asked as she slipped an arm around Illya's waist.
"About an hour ago," the Russian responded. Picking up the little package, he tried to hand it to Samantha, saying, "Why don't we open this one first."
Gently pushing the present back toward Illya, she declared, "That would mean I get to open both. You open this one."
A shy smile crossed his face as he nodded his agreement. Just as he started to unwrap the present, Samantha placed her free hand over his. Looking up at her, the Russian asked, "Change your mind about me opening it?"
"No, just wondering why would Mary give us both a present?'
Shifting positions to face her, Illya draped his left arm over Samantha's shoulder gently, taking steps to insure that his burnt wrists did not brush against her shoulders. "I told her we talked about getting married at some future date," he explained, his voice barely above a whisper. "I believe I've heard it called 'engaged to be engaged'. I guess I should have waited until you wanted tell your family."
Samantha smiled at him and responded with a lilting voice, "Mary won't say anything. I don't think we should either, until you meet the rest of the family first. Let you see exactly what you are getting yourself into." She removed her hand from the package, giving him tacit approval to begin opening it again.
"I doubt your family can be any worse than the individuals I meet professionally." Illya countered wryly as he began to unwrap the present.
Samantha's mind flashed over the number of times Illya had suffered injuries on the job, not to mention the Philadelphia incident the month before. In a lilting tone, she commented, "You're probably right. The worse my family will do is embarrass us both to death."
Casting a sideways glance at her, a knowing smile appeared on Illya's face as he removed the last of the elaborate wrapping. "Bruises to the body heal. Bruises to the ego sometimes do not."
"And Antonio can be rather, uh, bruising at times. He is the one I'm least comfortable with." Deciding to change the subject before the reason for her unease came out, killing their upbeat mood, she asked, "So, what's our present?"
Taking note of Samantha's comments about her brother, Illya lifted the top off the small gift box. Peering into the box, he found himself looking at an intricately folded mound of silk. "Lingerie if I'm not mistaken." He gently removed the silky undergarment. "She said I couldn't do much with it by myself," he added, arching his eyebrows.
"Her sense of humor is almost as unique as yours," Samantha commented as she reached out to run her hand across the fabric. Intertwining his fingers with hers, Illya pulled her hand to his lips for a quick kiss.
"Almost?" the Russian inquired when he released his grip on her.
"Almost. Would you like me to model it for you?" she asked, a flirty tone creeping into her voice as she reached out to run her hand across his cheek.
"After you open your present," Illya announced, reaching over to pick up the heavy package from the coffee table.
Feeling the weight pressing down onto her legs as he laid the box on her lap, she quipped, "If I didn't know better, I'd say you weighed this down." Samantha started to slowly unwrap the package, sneaking sideways glances at Illya as she attempted to gently remove the ribbons and paper.
"Who said we didn't?" remarked Illya, his face deadpan. His eyes, however, betrayed his merriment.
"Then I'd have to find some equally fitting present," she declared, beaming at him as she finished unwrapping the present. Moving the last of the paper out of the way, she could see that the present was an elaborately carved wooden box inlaid with pearl that was roughly just a few inches smaller than a dresser drawer. Samantha immediately realized that she had seen it before. It had been in the window of a shop they often passed on their way to dinner at their favorite restaurant in the Village. "It's beautiful!" she exclaimed, running her fingers over the intricate patterns on the cover of the box.
"Open it," Illya whispered, placing his hand on Samantha's shoulder, his thumb stroking the silk in her floral print blouse.
Her eyes widening, she lifted the hinged cover of the box. Inside, she saw a collection of lace and silk undergarments. She rested her head on the Russian's shoulder, touched by his attention to her comfort, at the cost of his own reputation if his apartment were searched by his adversaries, or even by his own countrymen. "I thought we talked about this situation before breakfast," she sighed, brushing her cheek against his shoulder.
Cupping her chin with his palm, Illya explained, "I came up with a solution, based on something I overheard recently."
Knowing that they both enjoyed observing people, often times over interacting with them, Samantha prompted, "Go on," genuinely intrigued over his idea.
"I've heard that some American men like to keep trophies of their conquests: underwear, hair ribbons." When Samantha gave a shaky nod of agreement, Illya realized that the man who had duped her into surrendering her virginity might have been such a man. Brushing his lips against her cheek, he immediately added, "Memories of the look in your eyes when we are together is the only trophy I need. If the ruse fits, however…" Illya let the sentence trail off as he shifted position, moving his lips to Samantha's mouth for a gentle kiss.
As the kiss ended, he added, "There is something else in the box you need to see, **Lyubimyj**," as he pulled the box closer.
Shooting him a quizzical glance, Samantha began to sweep the contents of the box first to one side, then the other. Resting in the back right corner of the wooden box was a smaller, velvet-covered box that she immediately recognized as a jewelry container. Sitting the bigger box on the couch beside her, she gently removed the jewelry box from its nest of fabric and wood.
Turning back toward Illya, she opened the lid. Inside, she found a pearl pendant suspended from a braided slider bail on a golden necklace chain.
"It's stunning," Samantha exclaimed, tracing the pattern of the braiding with one of her nails. Looking up at Illya, she asked, "Can you help me put it on?"
The Russian nodded and she removed the necklace from the box, laying it aside. Handing it to him, Samantha turned her back to him, sweeping her hair out of his way.
Moving the necklace up and around her head, Illya maneuvered the elaborate piece of jewelry into place. After locking the clasp, he allowed to drop softly against her skin. Kissing her neck, just above where the chain crossed it, he could see her quaking as a shiver ran down her spine.
"Are you cold?" he asked softly, playfully mimicking one of questions earlier in the evening as an amorous smile crossed his face.
Leaning back into him, she purred, "No, that's not it," repeating his earlier reply. Her hand dropped to his leg.
Moving closer, Illya began to kiss seductively up her neck.
Moaning as her hand slowly stroked him, Illya declared, "Suddenly, I'm not so worried about dinner," his voice a husky whisper.
"Neither am I," she replied, closing her eyes as she luxuriated in the passion Illya was stirring in her.
After gently nipping her earlobe, he stood up, trying to keep his balance on passion-wobbled legs. Helping Samantha to her feet next to him, they began their slow retreat to the bedroom, leaving a Hansel and Gretel trail of clothing in their wake.
******************
The Double Blond Affair Part 10a
******************
September 11, 1959
When Illya returned to work the next day, he was in a blissful mood, not that he would allow anyone there to observe his joyfulness. Well, maybe Napoleon and Mr. Waverly, he decided, people who saw who he really was, not the one-dimensional Soviet puppet everyone expected him to be.
Shoving his memories of the past 36 hours to the back of his mind, he once again assumed his professional demeanor of a reserved, unreachable agent. In reality, he had to struggle to maintain that mask, but not in the manner he expected. First, it had been the intrusive examinations of the medical section staff. Then came the doctor's insistence that he remain on desk duty for the rest of the workday, the last one of the week. He was slowly descending into a foul mood. Only his occasional thoughts of Samantha kept the usually taciturn Russian from venting his rage that morning. Didn't they understand that, as Napoleon's partner, he should be working WITH him? Yes, they could function separately, but missions were far more successful when handled together, each man's strengths balancing the other's weaknesses.
The Russian was still fuming about the forced inactivity when Napoleon breezed into the small office they shared. He looked up from the backlog of paperwork that had accumulated during his convalescence to glare at his partner.
When the Russian sent his icy stare in his direction, Solo set a large sack of takeout from the Chinese restaurant around the corner on the table. "A bribe," he announced, "so at least lunch will be pleasant today."
"Don't they understand I could be of better use somewhere else, anyplace else?" Illya grumbled as he reached for the food. Napoleon smiled at his quirky partner, appreciating the differences between them. He allowed Illya to prepare the plates as they talked. Although he had watched the Russian eat lunch on several occasions, he still could not believe the amount of food he could consume without gaining weight.
"I, for one," Napoleon answered, "am thankful that they ordered you to take it easy. If you were back on your feet, they might send us out of town, which might have conflicted with my plans for the weekend."
"What kind of plans?" the Russian asked, extending Napoleon a plate heaped with food.
"A beautiful woman, a cabin in Vermont, you figure out the rest," responded Solo, a faraway look in his eyes. Snapping out of his reverie, he glanced as his partner, taking the offered meal. "You can have a life outside of U.N.C.L.E. you know."
A hint of a smile appeared on Illya's face as he thought 'if you only knew'. What he responded instead was, "THAT depends on whether WE finish this paperwork. Mr. Waverly will chain us to our desks until it gets done."
"Well, then, why don't WE get at it?" Napoleon asked, sitting behind his desk to wait for his partner to hand him some of the papers.
Working together for the rest of the day, the men finished the mountainous backlog of paperwork. Shortly before 5 p.m., they left their office; each man setting their weekend plans into motion: Solo to Vermont and Kuryakin to Samantha's apartment.
After a brief stopover at his own apartment, Illya followed his a string of precautions for traveling to Samantha's apartment. Traveling to a cluster of restaurants a block over, he hailed a cab, using it to travel within a block of her home. From there, it was a quick walk to reach the residence. Although he usually walked to the apartment, he wanted to stay off his leg as much as possible.
Arriving at her home, he knocked on the door briskly. Receiving no answer, he fished the key out of his wallet and unlocked the front door.
Surprised to find the home dark, Illya ran his hand along the wall next to the entryway. He explored the area slowly until he found the light switch. Flipping it on, he was temporarily relieved when the chandelier over the circular table in the 'dining' room area illuminated that corner of the apartment. At least it wasn't a power failure, he decided, thankful for the fact he didn't have to deal with the resulting problems should the power be off. Instead, he knew he had a different set of problems to deal with.
The Russian fought the nagging fear that Samantha was with a man who would be more accessible to her. In the back of his mind, Illya struggled with issues of self-doubt; still having trouble accepting that a woman like Samantha could be happy building a life with a man who was often unavailable.
Knowing that she habitually left a piece of paper detailing her whereabouts to family members who may drop by, he began to search for the note. Quickly finding the paper on the kitchen counter, he was surprised to read that she expected to be home from a shopping trip by 5 p.m. Although she could have gone out a second time, Illya found it more reasonable to believe that she had never returned home.
Realizing Samantha was almost two hours late, his slight hint of jealousy was replaced by his growing concern for her safety. Turning on a minimum of lights as he traveled through the apartment, he passed from the living room, to the experiment room and finally to the bedroom. Flipping on the overhead light, he was irked when the overhead light flashed briefly and then burned out. After turning on the low wattage lamp on the nightstand on 'his' side of the bed, closest to the bathroom, he began checking the dimly lit bedroom for any clue that might tell him the reason for her absence or delay. Finding nothing wrong as he searched, he paused, debating his next step.
Deciding to call Toby to see if she had stopped at the club, Illya was reaching for the phone when he heard the front door begin to open. Unsure if it were Samantha, or some other, less welcome, person, he warily approached the door out of the room. Stealthily looking down the hallway as he drew his Special, he was happy to see it was indeed Samantha, dropping her purse and flipping off her shoes as she hurried into the apartment. She was headed for the bedroom, unbuttoning her blouse as she walked.
Stepping out into the semi-dark hall, he said, "Hello," to announce his presence. Kuryakin reholstered his pistol as he stared at the woman, who had stopped, startled by the sudden knowledge she was not alone. Debating whether to dive for her purse or for the safety of the kitchen, she peered down the darkened hallway, trying to identify the individual. In the end, the person's mop of golden hair told her who it was. Realizing it was Illya standing in the half-light at the rear of the apartment, Samantha rushed to him. "I'm so glad you're here," she sighed, pulling Illya closer as she laid her head on his shoulder.
Wrapping his arms around her, the Russian returned the embrace as the smell of exhaust and car grease wafted up to his nose. Burying his face in her hair, he tried to control his rapidly increasing sense of jealousy, he asked, "Where have you been?" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he suspected he had not been totally successful in keeping the feelings suppressed. He also knew his stiff body language might give her a clue as to what he was thinking.
Hearing the slightly accusatory tone in Illya's voice as he awkwardly held her, Samantha pulled away and looked up into his face. "I wasn't with another man, if that's what you're thinking!" she declared, irritated. Immediately regretting having snapped at him, she added quickly, "I'm sorry. It's just been a long, tedious day." Remembering the injury to Illya's lower leg, she added, "It's a rather long story, if you would like to sit down before I start."
Nodding, he took her hand, leading her to the closest available place to sit: the bed. Turning to face her, he brought his bended knee up onto the bed.
Curling her legs under her, Samantha reached for Illya, placing a hand on his bent knee. "I was out today, running errands in Toby's car, when I had a blowout."
"Are you sure it was a blowout?" asked Illya, instantly burying any hint of jealousy he might have felt, laying a hand on top of hers.
Touched by his show of concern, Samantha leaned over and kissed him gently on the cheek. Settling back into her prior position, she continued her story. Smiling at him, she added, "Not at first. Eventually I got out of the car and inspected the tire. When I started to change it, I realized the spare was flat too."
"Had the spare been tampered with?" Illya asked, suspicious of the turn of events. He frowned, wondering if there had been an attempt at foul play directed at her. Always wary of attacks against himself, he felt compelled to consider the possibility. Although he believed she could take care of herself, he also knew she could easily be targeted for an assault, due to her small size and delicate build.
Shaking her head, Samantha explained, "No. The man at the tire store I went to told me that the spare just had a slow leak is all. He also looked at the regular tire, and decided it was just a road hazard."
"How did you get to the tire store?" Illya asked, frustrated that he could not be the one she called when she needed help. Although he wanted to be the one she relied on for help, he knew that the fact he could not be a constant presence in her life made that impossible.
"I went to a nearby pay phone and called the club," Samantha responded, with a reassuring squeeze of his leg. "Toby was able to borrow one of the waitresses cars and come out and we used her spare. Then we went to the tire store." She sighed, starting to run her thumb over his knee. Laying her head in the crook of his neck, she commented, "Hopefully, I didn't make you worry too much."
"I was concerned after I found the note," he admitted, kissing her gently of the forehead. "I'm glad you were able to control the car. Was there any damage?"
Leisurely tracing circles on Illya's tie, she replied, "Just to my plans for the evening." Suddenly, she flashed him a large smile and exclaimed, "Stay put, okay? I have something for you." as she edged away from him and rushed out of the room. Wondering what Samantha was planning, the Russian watched as she left the room.
Deciding to make himself more comfortable, Illya removed his shoes, jacket and holster, placing the weapon and then his suit coat on the back of the chair next to his side of the bed. The shoes ended up beneath it. He was just starting to loosen his tie when she returned to the room.
"Hold on a second," she called, hurrying to stand next to him. "You might want it keep it on for a little while."
"Are you thinking we are going out again?" the Russian asked, starting to tighten the tie and put it back in place. Finishing quickly, he dropped his hands from the knot, reaching for her as she drew closer.
Laughing as she slipped her left arm around his waist, she exclaimed, "I need to take a shower first, no matter what we do. I feel pretty grubby after trying to change that tire. Before I get into the shower, though, I have something for you." Turning over the right hand, she showed Illya the small gift-wrapped present she was palming. "Surprise, **Lyubimyj**!"
Smiling, the Russian retrieved the mysterious item from Samantha's outstretched palm. "Thank you," he commented, glancing between her and the present. "I hope you didn't feel obligated to buy me something simply because I bought you the box."
"Why don't we sit down, and I'll explain what it is for while you open it?" the blonde suggested, almost bouncing with her enjoyment.
Nodding, Illya sat down on the side of the bed, pulling Samantha down beside him. She rested her head on his shoulder, watching as he slowly began to remove the layers of paper.
"Since I want us both to wear rings when we get married, I thought we should also both have pearls now," the young woman began to explain.
A smile tugged at the corners of Illya's mouth as he teased, "I wouldn't look good in that particular style of jewelry." His eyes flashed as he attempted to conceal his enjoyment of the current situation.
Shaking her head as she laughed, Samantha quipped, "Besides, the color would clash with your tie." Sobering slightly, she added, "I wanted something that would fit your everyday life, so you could wear it often."
By this time, Illya had removed the paper surrounding the gift, disclosing a velvet-covered jewelry box. Opening it, he saw an antique tie clasp, trimmed in black pearl. Speechless at first, he stared at the simple yet elegant piece of jewelry. "It's a wonderful present. Thank you," he finally said, pulling Samantha into his arms. After a soft kiss, Samantha smiled and declared, "I want to see how it looks.
Obliging her, Illya quickly removed the tie clasp he was wearing, replacing it with the new one. Handing her the old clasp to Samantha, he stated, "I guess it won't violate the office dress code," his eyes twinkling.
Reaching across Kuryakin's lap, she placed the clasp on the closest nightstand. As she leaned over him, he ran a soft hand down her back, gently massaging it. Grinning back at him as she sat back up, she replied, "That's good, because if it did, you would have to wear it around the house, and I know it often doesn't fit the dress code here."
A ghost of a smile started to appear on Illya's face, "Oh, there's a dress code here?" he asked playfully, beginning to gently finger the silk fabric at the bottom of her blouse collar.
"Oh, yes," the blonde replied, gently running her finger around the knot of his tie. "Clothing often optional."
Illya's smile widened as he leaned over, nuzzling her neck and the hollow of her throat, following the track of the necklace as it lay against her skin. Moving his hand down to the buttons on the front of her blouse, he began to expose more of her ample chest. As his roving fingers continued to move lower, his lips began to follow the same path as he lowered her onto the bed.
Fighting the urge to strip Illya's clothes of his leanly muscled body, the blonde remembered why she had wanted to take a shower. "**Lyubimyj**," she purred.
"MMMM?" questioned the Russian.
Briefly debating whether to act on her feelings, Samantha finally decided against it. She knew the stitches in Illya's leg would make cleaning any transferred grease difficult. Taking a calming breath, she sighed, "Unless you want road grime in the wonderful hair of yours, I need to take a shower."
Rolling over on his back next to her, Illya stared at the ceiling. Closing his eyes as he attempted to control his passion for her, he took a cleansing breath. Reaching out, unseeing, across the distance between them, he searched out her hand. He ran his fingers over the bedspread, stopping when he brushed up against her soft skin. Enveloping her smaller hand with his larger, well-worn one, he finally answered. "Do what you must and hurry back."
"Wish you didn't have to keep those stitches dry," she responded, caressing his hand with her fingertips. Hurrying into the bathroom on legs made shaky with desire, she quickly set about getting into the shower, trying not to obsess over the feelings Illya had inspired in her.
Struggling to reestablish his calm façade, the Russian listened to the sounds of Samantha moving around in the next room. When he was finally able to shelve his passions for the blonde, he rose to his feet.
Although he could not get the stitches wet, Illya decided he still could join her in the bathroom after her shower. Knowing the water stopping would signal the time to put his plan into motion, he thought about what he needed to do.
Deciding to get them drinks for later, he padded across the apartment in his stocking feet. Reaching the kitchen, he poured two glasses of wine for them to share later. Returning afterward to the bedroom, he sat the wine on the nightstand next to her side of the bed. Crossing over to his own, he quickly began to disrobe, leaving each successive layer of clothing in a pile on the floor. Hearing the shower stop through the wall, the blond quickened his pace, dispensing with the last few items of clothing.
Illya knew he did not want to frighten her by simply charging into the room. Moving to the bathroom door, he knocked twice and called, "Want some company?"
The minute Samantha had stepped out of the shower, she had begun to dry her hair. Startled by the knocking on the door, she relaxed when she recognized his voice, even muffled as it was by the door. "Come on in," she called, frantically trying to finish before he entered the bath.
Striding into the bathroom, Illya drew her into a close embrace, crushing her chest against his. Lowering his face to hers, he kissed her hungrily as he ran his hands over her back and buttocks, crushing her body against his.
As the kiss deepened, Samantha, dropping the towel to the floor, ran her hands up Illya's torso and into his hair.
Illya balanced Samantha against him as they began to walk out of the bath. With each step, he could feel the stitches on his lower leg begin to rebel against the strain. Hoping they did not rip out, he continued to move toward the bed.
Gently holding her against him, Illya backed out of the bathroom. He lowered Samantha onto the bed, laying her down sideways on it. Dropping back to the bed beside her, he could hear the bedsprings groan slightly.
A slight noise, barely audible above the sounds of their lovemaking, drew his attention temporarily away from her. Splitting his attention between the ample distractions presented by her body and his growing sense of unease, he listened for any sign of movement.
He heard a door click shut, he realized, followed quickly by the sound of someone walking softly toward them. Turning his face toward the open door to the bedroom, the Russian caught a glimpse of a man's shadow starting to fall across the darkened entryway to the room.
******************
The Double Blond Affair Part 10b
******************
September 11, 1959
The mysterious individual moved closer to the doorway. Realizing they weren't exactly being quiet, Illya concluded the intruder must be there to cause either Samantha or himself some harm. Most well-meaning people would retreat or call out when walking into an apartment where it was obvious they would be unwelcome at that exact moment.
Acting on pure instinct, Illya grabbed the small bedside lamp nearest him, pulling the plug out of the wall. The room was plunged into near total darkness almost immediately. The Russian tossed the light at the shadowy figure now standing in the doorway, halting the intruder's advance into the room. From the miniscule amount of light filtering in from the hallway, the blond could tell the visitor was a dark haired man, roughly six to eight inches taller and at least 75 pounds heaver than he was but was unarmed. The action was a diversion, nothing more. The crash of the lamp against the wall beside the 'guest' distracted the man, turning his attention toward the sound of the impact.
Moving away from Samantha, Illya leapt to his feet, trying to position himself between the passion-drunk woman and the intruder, using his body to shield her. He ignored the fact that both of them were naked, except to note that she was frantically grabbing the bedspread, trying to cover her body as she slid across the mattress. Briefly noting the direction she was moving in, he deduced she was heading for her backup weapon in the dresser, staying low against the bed. Taking a step backwards quickly, he retrieved his Special from its holster, hanging on the chair next to his side of the bed. Aiming quickly, the blond darted the stranger while his attention was diverted. Returning his attention to Samantha, he saw her pause between the bed and dresser, squinting into the darkness as she began to say, "An…."
The unusual sound of the dart gun made her stop mid word. "What the…?" she asked, turning to look at the weapon in Illya's hand. She was still trying to comprehend what had just happened when another sound, that of intruder's drugged body slumping to the floor drew her attention. She ran to the obviously unconscious man, forgetting for the moment that she had no clothes on. Kneeling beside the intruder with a look of concern on her face, she softly placed her hand on the man's neck, checking for a pulse. Illya returned his Special to its holster and turned to face the blonde.
Relieved when she found a strong pulse, Samantha's face quickly clouded over as she removed the dart from his upper arm and dropped it to the floor. Turning toward the Russian, she stared at him, her hostile mood readily apparent. "What did you just do to him?" she demanded, angrily, rising to her feet.
Temporarily taken aback by her hostile reaction, Illya replied, in a matter of fact tone, "I stopped an intruder sneaking through the apartment." He shot Samantha a questioning look, wondering why she should be so upset about the fact he was protecting her. Even though she didn't know everything about the riskier aspects of his life, she should still be thankful that he took steps to insure her safety. Moving around the bed, he started to walk toward the woman, hoping to talk to her about the situation without yelling.
"That so called intruder is my brother, Antonio," she replied, angrily. Her gaze traveled repeated between the two men, her expression constantly changing between anger and frustration.
Startled by her revelation, Illya stopped halfway between the bed and Samantha. Wondering why her brother be acting in such a way, he asked, "Why would your brother be trying to sneak up on us, especially when it was obvious we were being intimate?"
"Because he's an idiot!" she ground out through clenched teeth. "Will he be okay?" Samantha asked, barely getting her temper under control as she motioned toward her brother's unconscious form sprawled on the carpet next to her.
Assuming the woman's ire was directed at him for injuring her sibling, the Russian began to hastily rebuild the emotional walls around his psyche that he had let gradually slip since he met her. "There are no lasting effects," he replied, reverting automatically to his cold, scientific demeanor. "He should wake up in a few minutes."
The change in Illya's demeanor was immediately apparent to Samantha. Although he was looking at her, his eyes seemed remote, as if he couldn't connect with her somehow. Realizing he had no way of knowing her history with Antonio, she knew she had to explain her anger to him.
Crossing over to where he stood, a distant expression on his face, she searched his face for some sign of the caring man he had been before her brother showed up. The fact that she could find no trace of affection in his icy blue eyes troubled her more than Antonio breaking into her apartment. Gently laying her hand on his cheek, she stated softly, "I'm not mad at you, **Lyubimyj**, I'm furious at Antonio!"
Illya continued to stare, disconnected as Samantha's comments started to register. Slowly, his eyes became less harsh, less icy, as the earlier spark returned. Walking to stand next to the open door, he looked down at the drugged man. Glancing down at his unconscious form, Illya ran a cursory visual check on his condition: still breathing, no bleeding from where he hit the floor, seemingly no adverse reaction.
Reaching to the clothing pegs attached to the back of the bedroom door, the Russian removed Samantha's black silk robe from the hook. Bringing it around in front of him, he opened it, waiting for her to join him beside her brother.
Crossing over to Illya, she slipped on the robe and tied it in place. She leaned backward, resting her back against his chest. Sighing contently, she turned her face toward him, murmuring, "Thank you for taking care of me, **Lyubimyj**. Antonio can be a real jerk sometimes."
Wrapping his arms around her shoulder and chest, he pulled her closer. Pressing a light kiss on the corner of her mouth, he also sighed. "You're welcome," he whispered softly as he leaned into her. Pulling away from her, he retrieved his cotton robe from the hook next to Samantha's and slipped it on.
Now covered, Illya returned his attention to the blonde as she stood watching her unconscious brother sleep. "Why did he need to talk to you so badly that he felt he had to break in?" he asked, draping his arm around her shoulders.
"A very stupid reason," she whispered, looking up at Illya. Placing her head on his shoulder, she moved closer, encircling his waist with her arm. "He is VERY old fashioned, at least where I'm concerned. Being a girl, and the baby of the family to boot, he feels I need everybody's permission to do anything. He also feels that I have too much freedom. That I should be staying at home, not going off to school or working. Sometimes, it just gets to be too much and I try to stay out of his way and avoid the tirades."
"But breaking in seems a little extreme," he commented, guiding her gently away from the doorway. Shifting their position back to the bed, Illya sat down at the foot of the mattress, using the arm around her shoulder to guide the blonde to sit down next to him. He reached out with his free hand, interlacing his fingers with hers.
"He is really interested in how much he can control people, and he enjoys doing it. My brothers learned early on that I'm uncomfortable if they startle me, and he tries to use that to his advantage when we have to talk."
A typical interrogation technique, Illya immediately recognized. Put the subject on edge to achieve a superior position. Nodding in agreement, he wondered what line of work Antonio was in. Could the unconscious man lying in the doorway have some experience trying to direct others people's thoughts or conversations.
Smiling weakly at him, Samantha stated, "When this is all over, you have some explaining to do."
The Russian searched her face for some trace of anger or fear, but found neither. Her expression was one of curiosity. Relaxing, he nodded. "I owe you that much."
"Yes, you do," agreed Samantha, resting her head on his shoulder.
"You have some explaining to do, too," added Kuryakin, still slightly mystified over the dynamic between the siblings. The blonde silently nodded her agreement.
Without a word, the couple sat on the bed together, each lost in their own thoughts. For Illya, it was how much to tell her about U.N.C.L.E; for Samantha, it was how little she could tell him about her family situation. A sudden grunt from Antonio, now regaining consciousness, brought them both out of their reverie. His angry growl that followed had even more of an effect on the lovers.
Immediately raising to his feet, the Russian crossed over to the chair where his holster hung. Retrieving his Special, he turned back toward Samantha, waiting for her reaction.
Her eyes only hinted at her confusion as she glanced from his face, to the weapon and then back to his face. Finally, she gave a brief nod of acknowledgement before turning away to watch her brother as he slowly woke up. Illya quickly returned to the bed, positioning the weapon behind his back, hidden from Antonio's view but within easy reach. Watching the visitor through the corner of his eye, the blond returned his attention to Samantha. Placing his left hand on her knee as it peeked out from the front opening of her robe, he gave her leg a reassuring squeeze.
Using the nearby dresser for support, the larger man lumbered to his feet. Eyes narrowing in anger as he advanced menacingly toward Samantha, he snarled, "What the hell just happened?"
In one fluid movement, Illya grabbed his Special and hurried to stand in front of Antonio, the weapon held by the side of his leg. Shielding the woman from the man's rage, he ordered, "Step back!"
Stopping abruptly when he saw the weapon at the smaller man's side, Antonio demanded, in Italian, "Sami, tell him who I am!"
"I know who you are," Illya responded, in Italian, shifting the position of the pistol forward slightly, but still holding it at his side. The blond glared icily at the intruder, wondering if the man's less than pleasant personality could be the reason Samantha had never introduced the two of them.
Antonio's eyes grew wide in alarm. His attempt to talk to Sami without her obviously belligerent lover understanding the exchange had failed. Frustrated by the abrupt change in momentum in the conversation, the Italian stared silently at the pair, wondering what his next step should be. He never got a chance to find out, however.
Rising off the bed to stand behind him, Samantha spat out in English, "What do you think you are doing here?" Her tone was harsh, harsher than Illya had ever heard before, even when that racist bully had confronted them on their first weekend together.
Glancing down at the weapon clenched in the smaller man's right hand, Antonio asked, "Can't we talk about this like civilized people?"
"Civilized people don't enter apartments they don't have keys to," shot back the young woman, her tone still harsh as she glowered at their 'guest'.
"And they have enough dignity to realize when their presence would be unwelcome!" added Illya. With a final icy glare at the other man, the Russian stepped back. Slipping his left arm around Samantha's waist, he guided her to the bed. The gun still held at the side of his leg, he sat down beside her. Only then did he move the gun, setting it next to him on the bedding.
"You were avoiding me and I needed to talk to you," Antonio stated in a matter of fact tone. "I've been leaving messages under your door for a couple of days now."
"That DIDN'T give you the right to come busting into my apartment!" responded Samantha, placing her left hand on Illya's as he held her. "Where did you get the key?" she demanded, frowning as she glowered at the man.
"Borrowed the extra copy you left with the folks," the Italian replied smugly, unaffected by her display of ire.
Kuryakin tightened his grip on Samantha's waist. "We'll make sure that doesn't happen again," he stated, his tone level carrying only a small hint of his increasingly hostile attitude.
Antonio leaned in toward Illya, his mood starting to turn belligerent as he snarled, "You're mistaken, Shorty. There is no 'we'. Not until I say so."
As soon as that hated epithet left Antonio's mouth, Kuryakin jumped to his feet. Glowering at the pompous interloper, the blond refused to be intimidated by the man's larger size or arrogant manner. Unless and until Samantha indicated otherwise, they were still a couple, no matter what her family tried to infer. At one time, he would have allowed the interference, but no longer. The two of them were in charge of their future, not her siblings, especially any brother that had the audacity to break into her apartment.
Watching the two men square off against each other, Samantha to put an end to her brother's posturing. Hurrying to stand between the two antagonists, she declared, "No, YOU'RE the one that's mistaken, Antonio, if you think you can come in here and bully us into breaking up. I want you to leave."
Antonio stared at his sister, his eyes widening in disbelief. "You're throwing me out," he managed to choke out.
"Yes, until you are willing to act like an adult and not sneak into my apartment every time you want to talk to me." she vowed, glaring at her brother with barely disguised animosity. "I want you out NOW."
Turning away from the couple, the Italian stomped back through the apartment. "This isn't the end of this!" he yelled as he paused to open the front door. Fumbling with the doorknob, he began to mutter a string of profanities. As the venom filled speech continued, Illya was unsure whether the invectives were intended for the uncooperative fixture or at Samantha and himself.
Finally able to open the door, Antonio yelled, "Yeah, this isn't the end by a long shot!" as he stormed out of the apartment. Allowing himself the luxury of venting his fury on the inanimate door, the Italian slammed it with window jarring intensity.
When the noise from Antonio's rather loud exit had subsided, Samantha looked at Illya and stated, "If we're going to talk about your job and my family, I think we could both use a drink."
"A very LARGE one," Illya agreed as they walked out of the bedroom hand in hand.
******************
The Double Blond Affair Part 10c
******************
September 11, 1959
As Illya and Samantha walked toward the kitchen of her Greenwich Village apartment, she
abruptly released his hand and veered off, stomping to the main entrance to the residence.
Angrily slamming the front door lock into place, she turned back toward the Russian. "I don't
know why I should bother," the young woman grumped as she walked toward her companion.
"He's probably duplicated the keys he stole from my parents."
"A locksmith can put in a better lock for you, if the super agrees," Illya replied as he stopped in
front of one of the kitchen cupboards. Opening the door, he retrieved a pair of oversized
tumblers from the shelves in front of him.
"Not a problem," Samantha replied cryptically, an awkward smile on her face. Slipping past the
Russian as she moved to the refrigerator, she ran her hand over Illya's shoulders, caressing them
lightly through the heavy material in the cotton robe. "I'm just not sure what kind to get," she
added, opening the fridge and retrieving the liquor bottles: vodka from the freezer section for
him, red wine from the regular refrigerator section for her.
"I can help you with that," he volunteered, setting the glasses on the counter and closing the
cupboard door. Turning to face the shapely blonde, he laid his hand possessively on her hip,
gently pressing her toward him. "Just let me know what you want to do next," he added, a
suggestive smile flashing across his face. Illya's smile broadened as he mind flashed on the irony
of the situation. His co-workers perceived him as cold, analytical, unaffected by women's
feminine charms. If they only knew that he was indeed affected, and as strongly as his charming
partner, but by just one woman, this woman, they would surely rethink that assumption.
Setting the bottles down on the counter next to the glasses, Samantha turned to face him,
wrapping her arms around his waist. "Want to do and have to do seem to be two separate things
in this case." Taking a deep breath, the young woman removed her hands from Illya's body and
began to pour the beverages into the tumblers, first his vodka and then her wine. Smiling
nervously, she added, "Why don't we get this over with... and then see where things lead from
there?"
After a long second of hesitation, the Russian nodded in agreement. He picked up both drinks
and walked to the couch as Samantha returned the bottles to the refrigerator. Sitting down on the
center section of the couch, he placed the drinks on the coffee table in front of him and then
settled back, waiting for her to sit down.
Draping his arm over the back of the couch, Illya turned to watch the blonde as she moved
toward him. Judging by the frown on her face, he deduced she was expecting the conversation to
go badly. When she came within arm's reach, he wrapped his hands around hers, squeezing them
gently as she sat down next to him. A half-smile crossed his face as he explained, "I hope that
anything you learn tonight will not change your impression of me."
Blinking in surprise, Samantha looked up into his handsome face, her lower lip quivering
slightly. "I was going to say something similar to you," she stated, interlacing her fingers with
his. You go ahead and start, okay?" she added, a half-smile on her face.
"Ladies, first," Illya stated chivalrously. The blond agent was still unsure of what she would ask
and hoped a minimal explanation would suffice. He would rather not be having the discussion at
all, but the young lady did deserve some answers after what happened tonight.
Samantha decided that she would direct the conversation toward those aspects of her personal
background that might conflict with what she had deduced about the Russian's career. Only after
he understood her past could he realize why she was so appreciative of her often odd family.
She began by stating, "I know you aren't comfortable talking about all of this." Swallowing, the
blonde continued, "I don't know where to begin. There are several things about my past that you
might find, uh, disturbing."
Tightening his grip on the young woman's hands, the Russian commented, "There are certain
events that happened to both of us in the past. While some of those things were not always
particularly pleasant, they helped forge us into the people we are today."
Samantha was surprised by the amount of previous thought Illya had put into that response, one
of the longest personal statements he had ever made. Running her tongue over suddenly dry lips,
she wondered if his statement was a response to her comment or the beginning of his own
confession to his 'trial by fire' youth. When the couple lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, she
realized he was waiting for her to continue. "Even if some of those things were illegal?" she
finally whispered regretfully, her voice barely audible and she looked down at the floor in front
of the couch.
Illya's mind rebelled at the thought that Samantha might consider herself a criminal. He had run
a standard check through U.N.C.L.E. resources on both her and the majority of her family
members, even the ones she thought he knew nothing about yet. None of the files contained any
information that could cause him any regrets. He had not learned anything about her or her past
that soured him on the relationship. Nor had he found any information that could open him up
for Thrush blackmail at some later date. Even if he had not had access to U.N.C.L.E. resources,
her obvious show of remorse would have convinced him she was not a perpetual lawbreaker.
Illya's face became impassive as he struggled to resurrect his poker face, a demeanor that served
him effectively as an U.N.C.L.E. agent, but not very well as a lover. He was loath to discourage
the young lady if she were in a confessing frame of mind. "What kind of criminal activity?" he
asked in a monotone, searching her face for any signs of an adverse reaction to the question.
Immediately noticing the change in the Russian's demeanor, she hurried to explain, "All of it
happened while I was down in the South with Toby; mostly penny-ante stuff such as vagrancy
and shoplifting food."
Illya felt compelled to keep his knowledge of her past from the woman, not only to protect
U.N.C.L.E secrecy, but to also find out exactly how she felt about the events that had happened
all those years before. Allowing Samantha to continue, he forced himself to react to only the
information she gave him directly. Slowly nodding his agreement, he commented, "I doubt if
anything you did as a child during those difficult times would present a problem now." Although
he knew about all the charges resulting from her stay in the south, he was interested in hearing
about her version of the events. Additionally, the Russian decided it would be better if he did not
disclose the degree of information he had already gathered about her past.
Nibbling on her lower lip, the genteel blonde considered her next response carefully. "There was
one time just before we were adopted. Toby was hurt real bad..." Samantha let the sentence
trail off, lost for a moment in memories of her life in the south. Shaking herself mentally, she
forced herself out of her reflective mood and continued. "The nearest hospital was a 'white's
only' facility... and they refused to treat him. "I was convinced, right or wrong, that Toby would
die if they didn't take care of him, so I did the only thing I thought I could do." Samantha lapsed
into silence as she contemplated how to finish the story, considering how he might react. After
all, he had been brought up in a society were obedience to the state was stressed heavily.
Illya could clearly see the depth of emotion painted on the woman's face. Still loath to tell
Samantha the truth that he knew about her legal problems in the past, he searched his mind for
some means to comfort his obviously distraught lover. Reaching over to the coffee table, he
picked up the tumbler containing her wine. Bringing it forward, he silently offered Samantha an
opportunity to pause and take a drink. Having lost his entire family before he could take
preventative measures, he could only guess what intense pain a twelve year old might have felt
when faced with the death of the only remaining close relative.
She stared at the glass, tear-filled eyes unable to see clearly. Blinking away the mistiness, she
reached out, nervously clenching the tumbler with both of her trembling hands.
Illya also picked up his vodka, downing most of the fiery liquid in one quick swallow. Watching
the overwrought young woman attempt to bring the drink to her lips, he sat down his nearly
empty glass and placed a supporting hand at the bottom of the tumbler.
After taking one large gulp of the wine, Samantha pulled the cup away from her lips, nodding to
answer the unspoken question of 'Are you done?' reflecting in the Russian's eyes. Setting the
drink back on the coffee table, she turned to face him, struggling to adopt a more scientific
reserve. "I threw a fit, refusing to leave and telling them they couldn't just stand there and watch
him die. After a few minutes, a security guard showed up, trying to get us to leave. From the
way he was staggering around, I figured out he was drunk. I'd seen enough wino's stumbling
around by then to know." Samantha's tight control on her emotions evaporated and she hung her
head.
Unsure on how to approach the young woman, Illya wished he could find a set of directives to
show him how to sooth Samantha. He knew his partner, Napoleon, would know exactly the right
approach to take to console the woman, whether to murmur sweet, comforting words to her, or
sweep her into his arms and kiss her breathless, numbing her mind to the turmoil. However,
even if they were not both incredibly reserved individuals, neither he nor Samantha could
dismiss the pain of their awkward youth that easily.
Reaching across the space between them, Illya cupped her chin in his hand. "What happened,
**Lyubimyj**?" he asked softly, becoming concerned at the direction the conversation was
taking. The permutations of the situation, with an agitated pre-teen facing off against a drunken
guard, boggled the Russian's mind. The research he had done into her past gave no hint of this
situation. As he talked, his hand traced the line of her jaw before dropping gently to her
shoulder.
Looking up at Illya, Samantha paused briefly, chewing on her lower lip before she continued. "I,
uh, got my hands on his gun... and ... uh, made them fix Toby up." Her voice trailed off as she
intently scanned Illya's face for some sign of understanding, hoping she did not have to finish the
story. She had purposely made the statement simplistic; hopefully, he would not want details.
Deducing that the young girl would have known she was possibly trading her own freedom for
her stepbrother's life, he asked, "How long before the police arrived?" The Russian knew that an
immediate response from the authorities would have meant the end of her attempts to save Toby;
the often ill-timed appearance of adversaries was something he was intimately aware of.
A slight glimmer of pride flashed in her eyes, quickly replaced by the same wistful expression
that had been there before. "I was able to get him to a colored hospital before the police found
me," she replied. "While I was waiting for trial in Juvi Hall, the social worker on my case
contacted a family she knew when she lived in NY...Mama and Papa. They were known to
adopt so called problem children and had great luck in changing their outlook. Papa descended
with several defense lawyers, who pointed out that the hospital did not want the public to know
that they routinely had drunken staff, or that they forced a young girl to take such desperate
measures to save someone's life. Within a few days, Toby and I were on a plane north to meet
our new family. I swore then and there that I would do everything I could for them, even if it
meant putting up with the rather peculiar antics of my new brothers. And, believe me, I knew
even then that some were VERY peculiar."
As she talked, Illya traced the length of her shoulder with his hand. He knew why her confession
might upset other people, but they did not understand she only did what was required to save a
life. To him, that was the most important fact brought out in her entire statement.
Weaving his fingers up into her hair, he cupped the back of her head with his palm. Pressing her
forward, he claimed her lips for a gentle kiss. Breaking the kiss, he looked down into her eyes,
searching for a sign her mood was improving. "Are there many more of them?" he finally
teased, the corners of his mouth tipping up in a hint of a smile. Although Uncle had a file of her
family, it might be possible for one of her more quiet siblings would not be included in that
paperwork.
"You've only met about half of them," she replied, his obvious acceptance of her childhood
indiscretions starting to raise her spirits. Shifting her position slightly, she laid her cheek on his
upper arm. Smiling shyly up at him, she added, "I'll be sure that you know more about their
quirks before we go home for Christmas."
"I suspect 'home for Christmas' might be a problem," Illya confessed, his smile disappearing. "I
often work through the holidays." Swinging his free arm under Samantha's thighs, he lifted her
legs, draping them over his lap. After making sure she was settled, the Russian placed his hand
on her leg, gently stroking his thumb against her silk-covered thigh.
As her smile grew less tentative, the curvaceous blonde commented, "So do I usually, since Toby
loves to give his employees as much time off as they want. We celebrate both early and late
every year, so it's not a problem." Tracing up his jaw line, she ran her fingers into his hair.
"Speaking of work," she murmured, snuggling closer as she nuzzled his neck, "I do have
something to talk to you about. I'd like some information, since it looks like I might need to
know a few things."
The moment Illya had dreaded had arrived. His thumb taped nervously, just once, against
Samantha's robe as he struggled to reestablish the composure he had let slip in the last few
minutes. Moving his hand out of the blonde's hair and allowing it to drop to her shoulder, he
asked, "What would you like to know?" masking, for the moment, his mixed emotions over the
situation. Knowing that she honestly believed she needed the facts, he wanted to set her mind at
ease. However, he also knew some of the answers she was seeking could potentially be more
difficult for the young woman to handle than posing the question had been to begin with.
Dropping her hand from his hair, the blonde caressed his cheek in what she hoped was a
reassuring manner. "I'm not going to ask many questions, really. When you want me to know
more details, you will tell me. I would like confirmation of some things, however. I've
concluded that you work for some sort of international group supplying both science and security
expertise. Between your nationality, your science background and the unusual gun modifications
you have, I suspect I can't be too far off." Samantha paused, wondering if she should explain
that the organization often tried to lure promising science students from Columbia into its
employ. Finally, she just stated, "I think you work for U.N.C.L.E." She paused again, waiting
for him to answer. When the Russian failed to respond, Samantha prompted, "Am I correct?"
"Yes," Illya replied, feeling no need to elaborate. While he was surprised that she had been able
to deduce not only the type of work he did, but also the name of his employer. He also wondered
what further information she might want. In the back of his mind, a nagging suspicion that she
might be a Thrush plant flickered, and he immediately squashed the idea. Although he had not
been a field agent long, the Thrush females he had dealt with before had little in common with
the genteel, caring woman he held on his lap. He would not allow his cynicism to ruin this
relationship, but he couldn't help but still question why a woman such as Samantha would
tolerate some of the more unique aspects of their life together. The feel of the shapely woman
shifting slightly beside him broke him out of his reverie and drew his attention back to his
companion.
With a soft sigh, Samantha rested her head against Illya's shoulder. As the hand that she had
dropped to his cheek began to move back toward his ear, she announced, "**Lyubimyj**, you
are one of the most decent, honorable men I know. I suspect you were exposed to too much
cruelty as a child to visit it on anybody else." Allowing a solitary fingertip to gently trace the
outline of his uniquely shaped ear, she explained, "Besides, how many international
organizations are there based in New York with both a science branch and a security branch?
U.N.C.L.E. tried to recruit me to work for its science department about a year ago. I decided I
wanted to work for one of the family run companies, instead. There's one that is doing research
into radio technology that sounded really interesting to me." Smiling nervously, she dropped her
hand down to rest on his shoulder. Pulling away slightly, she tilted her head up to look at him.
Leaning over to gently kiss her upturned lips, he was thankful she was not demanding specific
details about U.N.C.L.E. or his position there. Now even more curious over what information
she DID want, he placed his forehead against hers and asked, "What information do you need?"
Nibbling on her lower lip nervously as she formulated the approach to take, she finally answered
his question with a question of her own. "When Antonio snuck in here earlier, you thought he
was one of your, uh, opponents breaking in to get you, didn't you?"
Illya lapsed into an awkward silence, wondering if she would consider his usual wariness as
paranoia. Without knowing the exact details of his profession, it was quite possible that she
would not understand the depths Thrush might stoop to in an effort to control him. That the
break-in had occurred during a time when she might be insulted if his attention was elsewhere
was equally as troubling. Deciding to ignore the cause of the question, he explained, "Yes. It is
also possible that it was someone trying to get you for kidnapping or extortion purposes."
Samantha nodded in acknowledgement. Although she never mentioned her family's economic
condition, she suspected that Illya had deduced that they were affluent. Thankful that he had not
requested additional information on her home life, she put aside Illya's veiled reference to her
family's unacknowledged economic status for a later discussion as she nodded in agreement.
"Then I want you to take any steps you think are necessary to make the apartment safe. Alarm
systems, steel doors, anything that will help. I don't want you to have to worry. I'm just sorry I
didn't think about it before."
The Russian's trademark half-smile flitted across his face. He was amazed that her primary
concern had been for his comfort. "Thank you. Are you sure those changes won't present a
problem for the owners?" he inquired.
"Positive," she replied emphatically. After a brief, silent pause, she realized that his deduction of
the family's financial situation gave her more freedom to discuss the issue. She explained
sheepishly, "Toby bought the building shortly after I moved in. I'll just explain we want to
increase the security after Antonio's, uh, 'visit' here."
"Is that all you wanted to talk about?" Illya asked, his smile becoming more sensual. His hand,
formerly resting nervously on her knee, began to gently stroke her outer thigh.
A knowing expression appeared on Samantha's face. Her hands floated down from his
shoulders, fingertips barely brushing against the sliver of exposed skin on his chest. Slipping her
arm around his back, she replied in a soft voice, "I think there is only one more thing, since your
office probably knows to pay your rent and such when you are out of town for an extended
period."
When Illya silently nodded in agreement, she continued. "I'll try to keep enough first aid
supplies around to take care of any minor injuries you might get and just keep it between us.
However, if your opponents break in and hurt you badly enough that you have to go to the
hospital, Napoleon would want to know. How can I get in touch with him if that happens?"
A look of appreciation crossed the Russian's face as he noted that Samantha's major concerns
seemed to revolve around his comfort and well being. She was obviously avoiding any question
that might elicit any more information about the U.N.C.L.E. organization. Smiling at her, he
responded, "I'll give you a number that will take a message and forward it to him. It would better
to call him before we go to the hospital, however. We have our own clinic and doctors who are
familiar with my case and I might need to go there."
"I'll do that," she replied. Her eyes flashing with amusement a split second later, she teased, "I
think I know why the doctors would want you to go into their clinic."
Seeing Samantha's quip as a signal she has returning to the pleasant mood she had been in earlier
in the evening, his smile widened slightly as he asked, "You do?" His hand, which had been
stroking her outer leg, slowly shifted upward, dragging the lower edge of her silk robe with it.
Samantha felt a sudden surge of desire as Illya's fingers stroked up her thigh. Finding it hard to
concentrate as her passion flared, she struggled to deliver the punch line to her joke. "Since
those so-called angels of mercy take an oath to do no harm, they probably feel it's better not to
inflict a patient like you on their fellow doctors."
"They already inflict far too much on their patients," he replied with a faux snarl. Although his
words hinted at his usual frustration with the medical profession, his rapidly darkening eyes
betrayed he was not feeling frustration but another more basic emotion: lust. "Want to go back
to the bedroom," he asked, his other arm tightening his grip on the woman.
Samantha murmured, "I'm glad your voracious appetite isn't limited to food, **Lyubimyj**!"
Knowing any shift in position would break the passions spell the Russian's gentle ministrations
were stirring in her, Samantha was hesitant to move away from him.
Finally moving off his lap, she struggled to stand on passion-wobbled legs. Extending her hand
toward Illya, she smiled down at him as her eyes flickered with hints of her ever-deepening
desire.
Standing up next to the shapely blonde, he pulled her close to him, pressing his body into hers.
Claiming her mouth in a deep, passionate kiss, his hands caressed her body through her silk robe
as his tongue danced with hers.
Lungs screaming for air, Samantha finally broke the kiss. Slipping her arm around his waist, she
steered him toward the bedroom.
TBC
Translations and Notes:
Lyubimyj - Darling, beloved
Scientific journals appeared as early as 1841. A partial list of early scientific journals, along with the year of initial publication include: The Annals and Magazine of Natural History, 1841; The Zoologist, 1843; Quarterly Journal of Microscopical Science, 1853; The Journal of Horticulture, 1862; The Geological Magazine, 1864; The Journal of Anatomy and Physiology, 1866.
