Sequel to

Russian Roulette --

epilog to

THE THRUSH ROULETTE AFFAIR

Aftermath

by

gm

1967

At the familiar coded-knock at the door, Illya Kuryakin sat up straight in his chair. Before he could make a dash to intervene, the door opened and closed and Napoleon Solo walked into the living room.

“Up late . . . . “ the flippant greeting faded away; the dark-haired man’s features scrunched in perplexity as he studied his friend. “Watching a test pattern?”

The small black and white television on the shelf was on, displaying the network sign-off symbol.

Taking a seat near his partner, on the arm of the sofa, Napoleon Solo gestured to the set. “I saw the flickering when I pulled into the garage. At this hour I thought, at the very least, it would be a Frankenstein movie.”

Kuryakin knew to remain silent would only invite more interrogation. Not in the least inclined to talk, he shrugged, unable to come up with a pithy comment.

“Can’t sleep, I take it. Anything specific?”

‘Hardly deduction worthy of Sherlock Holmes,’ Illya wanted to bite back in a sarcastic retort. Lashing out with an acerbic line would only indicate more of his mood than he wanted. Feeling the inevitable press of foreboding that he was doomed anyway, he nonetheless strove for neutrality in his voice and blandness in his expression.

“Perhaps the chicken I had for dinner.” Change the focus, he decided and quickly continued. “You are home early. Loraine not your type?”

Solo squinted a quick look at the clock across the room. “Just past midnight. While I didn’t turn into a pumpkin, I did have a nasty surprise. Loraine has -- had -- has a boyfriend.”

Smirking, Illya scrutinized his friend, seeing there were no visible signs of an unhealthy encounter. “And?”

“You can congratulate me on playing cupid this week. Apparently both realized they were mad about each other when I came into the picture.” He scowled. Leaning over, he tugged at the collar of Kuryakin’s rumpled pajama shirt. “Am I correct that you are having trouble sleeping?”

At the accurate assessment, Illya turned away.

Napoleon sighed. “Dreams again?”

There was no reason to hide the truth. Solo knew -- he always did. Professionally trained to observe the slightest details of any person or situation, he usually spotted Illya’s fatigue, his tension, his irritability when the nightmares plagued him. How could he not? They were partners and knew each other too well. Their very lives depended on the other to be in top shape and any variation from the norm was a liability to both. It was Napoleon’s right to know. Only Kuryakin’s instinctive dread of exposure to any personal, inner vulnerability -- even to his friend -- made him close up.

In their profession, bad dreams were not unheard of, but in most cases they became accustomed to the death and mayhem they faced daily. Torture and pain were harder to forget, but eventually those evil memories faded. There had been so much happening to them lately, sleepless nights were one of the unfortunate, but almost expected side-affects.

“Are you going to make me guess?”

The tone -- understanding, sympathetic, open -- made a confession impossible. He did not want to converse this at all with his partner. In all their trials together; the mistakes and traumas, this was the worst, and Illya hated discussing it with the person who was most directly involved with the debacle.

“Partridge’s brainwashing?”

The Russian flinched.

“Illya --“

“I have nothing to say.”

Shrugging, Napoleon walked over to the side table where Illya kept the liquor. He poured two glasses of scotch and brought them over, handing one to Illya. He drank it and coughed, casting his friend a sour look.

“I had to get your attention.”

Scowling, Illya put the offending liquor on the coffee table.

Solo slumped onto the couch next to his friend. “Well, this is cozy.”

“I have nothing to say. You might as well go to your apartment.”

Placing his feet up on the table, the senior agent sipped his drink. “And abandon my partner --“

“Napoleon, I do not want to talk.”

Rolling his eyes, Solo sighed, “I thought we had this resolved.” After a long, intense stare he completed, “I guess not.”

“Do you think this is something simple this time?” the Russian countered with acerbity.

“No. Instead of the usual torture, it was brainwashing to kill me. Not usual. I hope.” At Illya’s counter-glare, he smirked. “Not a pleasant nightmare to be reliving, Illya, but it is just a bad dream now.”

“No it is not.” The adamant denial startled him, knowing this sore had festered too long and he was unable to prevent the obvious wound from showing to the one person who knew him best. To the one he did not want to remember the terrible incident. “I turned on you. I pride myself on my professionalism. My cool, aloof invulnerability. On my – loyalty,” he finished in a quieter tone. “And Partridge destroyed that in one night. He found my weakness. Against you! How could he make me do that? I tried to kill you! How could I do that?”

“I don’t know, Illya. But we’ve been over this before,” he thoughtfully pondered aloud. “And I still think unless you can resolve this in your own mind you are going to continue to have nightmares.”

“Thank you Doctor Solo.”

Instead of leaving, instead of shifting uncomfortably and admitting Illya was beyond hope, Solo simply shrugged. That so typical, elegant, dismissive, slight movement of his shoulders under the expensive suit jacket. His expression was one of earnest sincerity, not of loathing, not of rejection. All of that was to be expected, but deep down, Illya harbored the thought -- the fear -- that someday that would change. That he would do something -- be forced to do something -- under duress, torture, whatever -- that would destroy all that faith and trust that Solo exhibited toward him on a daily basis.

Abandonment. The UNCLE shrink had pried out of him that Partridge somehow divined his deepest fear. Being left behind. Forsaken by those he depended on. The one he trusted. There we so few. The only one absolutely in whom he wholeheartedly placed his life. But was his faith that strong? Really absolute? Then why the continued nightmares? Did he really doubt Solo?

Abandonment. He stared at his friend and felt Napoleon knew exactly what he was thinking -- feeling. The doubts, the questions within. It was harder and harder to hide anything from Solo. It was as if they were at intense times mentally linked. Years of partnership had brought them closer than blood. Closer than anything he could have imagined. Then how could he betray his friend? The fear of Napoleon’s betrayal overriding everything else at his subconscious level?

Napoleon quietly sipped his drink and stared at him. “I think you’re having a bad night. You’ll feel better in the morning.” He placed the glass on the coffee table. “You didn’t try to kill me,” he corrected mildly as he stood. “If you had tried, I told you, you could have hurt me. Not killed me, of course, because I AM still better than you.” As he walked past, he paused to squeeze Illya’s shoulder. “Just remember, Partridge DIDN’T win. You didn’t kill me. I still trust you. I hope that is more important than what our enemies have been able to trick out of us in the past.” He patted both of Illya’s shoulders. “Get some sleep. Right?”

Kuryakin nodded.

“Remember, as long as you still have doubts, I think you’re still going to have nightmares. So stop dwelling on the incident. Partridge is dead. His secret died with him. There will be no more brainwashing. And what he managed to do was superficial. I didn’t take it seriously and nether should you.”

“I know.”

Napoleon’s expression was sour. “You, my friend, are not buying a word of this.”

“No.”

Sighing, Solo leaned back and studied his friend. “I could always shoot you with a sleep dart.”

Scowling, Kuryakin stood and gestured to the door. “You would, too. However, your boring conversation has managed to relax me, Napoleon. Thank you. I shall be able to sleep well now.”

Solo’s grimace was eloquently skeptical. “Right. I could always stay, talk, sleep on the couch --“

“Then your snoring would keep me awake, which is not my goal.”

Scrutinizing him much too carefully, the American finally sighed and gave a slight nod. “I’ll be by in the morning to pick you up.” At the door, he stopped and pulled up his communicator so the tip was revealed over the pocket. “Call if you need anything.”

“Thank you.”

Hand resting on the knob, Napoleon’s face sobered. “I still trust you. Sweet dreams.”

After the front door closed and Kuryakin could no longer hear his friend’s receding footfalls, Illya stared at the glass of scotch Napoleon had left behind on the table. ‘I still trust you. I hope that is more important than what our enemies have been able to trick out of us in the past.’

The words of solid conviction rang in his ears. Trust. Napoleon still felt it without reservation. Did Illya? He stared at the glass, vividly remembering the expression on Solo’s serious face, the tone of sober certainty. As if there would never be anything Illya could do to sway that incredible faith in him. In their partnership. Could he equal that faith? After the brainwashing?

‘Not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But soon, Napoleon, soon. I fear abandonment of the person I have laid my soul bare to, but I never expected to be the one to betray you.’ He drew in a deep breath. ‘I will not be that instrument again. I will not be the one to let you down, Napoleon.’

Lying down on the sofa, he stared at the glass of scotch until his eyes blurred and he closed them, feeling his mind drift on to speculation about the future, pushing away the spectres of the past. He had to get over this, Napoleon was right about that. Tomorrow or the next day, his skill and abilities might be required to save the world. Or save his friend’s life. He had to be ready for that. And that thought extinguished the trepidation of more nightmares and the lingering doubts about his own loyalties. If keeping his partner safe was still such a priority, then perhaps the brainwashing really did have no lasting affect. Only the remnants of fear. And that could be dissolved in the reality-wash of practical application in their daily duties, just as the nightmares dissipated in the light of day.

Adding strength to this new idea was the memory of Solo’s confidence. Unfailing trust in him. Maybe regaining faith in himself was just that easy. Standing in the reflection of Solo’s faith, knowing he still held Napoleon’s fate in his hands, was what he really needed to accept. Who’s influence was stronger -- Solo’s or Partridge’s?

That was easy, he almost laughed in his sleep, content to know until his own total trust in himself was restored, he could lean on someone who solidly believed in him.

THE END