OVER THE HILL
by
gm
With a sigh, Illya Kuryakin turned his head away from the mesmerizing tapping of fingers on the armrest. His partner’s nervous thumping had a hypnotic quality and he broke the dazed observation in an effort to shift his mental attention to another plane.
Even knowing the reasons behind the flurry of anxiety, Kuryakin wished to distance himself from the manifestation. Napoleon Solo’s disturbance was obvious on too many fronts and the overtly palpable had become irritating. To continue to ponder on what pressed upon both their minds for weeks was only to suffer in mutual discord. Annoyance with life in general; with the spy business, with the inability to win at this vital, but insurmountable foe, plagued them both.
With a deep sigh, Napoleon consciously stopped his compulsive finger tapping and tightened his fingers into a clenched fist. Glancing at his partner, he caught a returned gaze and sheepishly grinned tightly without mirth. Folding his hands together in his lap, he gave a slight shake of his head.
“Afraid I’m not taking this well. You should have taken another flight. Or another seat.”
Kuryakin shrugged easily. “There was no point. We cannot avoid the inevitable. Or thinking about it.”
“No,” the American agreed with profound regret.
Scanning around the interior of the jet liner, he tried to
distract himself by admiring the stewardess.
Her trendy uniform was attractive and short, reminding him of the attire
of female UNCLE agents employed at HQs around the world. Naturally, that mental link trailed his
thoughts to their destination – HQNY – home base. The concluding stop after this final mission
in
Weeks
ago, Illya had forced a confession out of him -- not abiding Solo's unusually dour
mood for long. Once the reason for
Solo's discontent was made known, the Russian tried to
make light of the situation -- ponder alternatives, bolster him with false hope
-- uncharacteristic, but touching attempts to improve the inevitable. As the deadline grew closer, Illya also
slipped behind a familiar curtain of moodiness.
Over the last few days, they had hardly conversed beyond the mission
necessities, both preoccupied with glum foreboding.
Now, as
the hours ticked down to minutes, Solo's empty stomach churned from trepidation
to fear. While there could be no comfort
or salvation from the inevitable this time, it helped that he had his friend
beside him in this final adventure together.
Kuryakin could not alter Fate, but he could temper the bitterness of
this end. Napoleon was grateful they
were beyond the trite and hollow reassurances -- that he would 'live through this' or that 'this was not really the end of the world'
-- or worst of all, that 'this is only a
job, not life'. True they would
still see each other occasionally. They
would be in the same building, even.
That did not help. They could
defeat megalomaniac madmen, THRUSH masterminds, and international
criminals. They could not win against
the red tape of this world organization.
The seat
belt warning lights flashed on. The
pretty stewardesses issued the tray table advisories. The landing gear thumped down. They were almost home. This dreaded deadline was almost up.
Feeling Illya's
eyes on him, he turned to face his partner.
"What?"
"I
have failed to make the obvious comment.
We were caught up in the mission and -- and what will happen when we
return to headquarters." His lips
twitched with a slight smile.
"Happy birthday. If I
believed in wishes . . . " He shook
his head, as if embarrassed at the mere thought of making such a telling,
emotionally personal comment. "You
know I would wish this to be otherwise."
For the
first time in days, Napoleon felt the smile that spontaneously stretched his
lips. "Thanks. For the wish.
And the sentiment. I wish it
would change things, too. But it helps
to know you're in my corner."
"Always,"
he assured vehemently. "And I will
fight for you. Do to think they can try
this without resistance?"
"Ah,"
Solo almost laughed. "Your defiance
to authority is one of your charming assets."
Taking
the light comment in the tone it was intended, the Russian wryly countered,
"Perhaps this is such a surprise because you never expected to live this
long for age to become a problem."
"Da. Not that many Section Two agents live to be
Forty." Sobered at the apparent
reality brought on by that admission, the glumness returned. "Obviously for good reason."
Kuryakin's
brow wrinkled in concern. "There is
a bright side, my friend. Your life
expectancy will be lengthened tremendously."
"How
exciting," Solo sighed acidly. “Retirement to a desk -- promotion UNCLE style. Too old for the field, so they give you a
raise for surviving the hazardous operations and put you out to pasture. That's really something to live for."
"At
least you're alive. That hasn't always
been expected."
Kuryakin's
tone echoed relief and Solo's bitterness surged to anger. "Oh, right. I'll be pushing
papers and you'll be out there dodging bullets.
It's wrong!" he nearly shouted.
Seeing he had attracted attention from the others around them, he
dropped the tone of his voice and the hostility turned to regret and
sadness. "I won't be out there with
you anymore. Who's going to watch you
back?"
The
abandonment of his partner was what hurt most.
The retirement to a desk damaged his ego and his longing to continue a
life of action. His self
esteem chinked at the thought that he was no longer going to be the hot
shot agent. The blazing star who
attracted attention in the halls and respect and admiration from most of the
staff because he was the head of Section Two -- the core of action and excitement in the
spy business.
No, what
pained him most about the mandatory retirement from the field at age Forty was leaving Illya to carry on in Section Two - in
the field -- without him. That he could
not be there to protect and care for his friend. In his heart, that nearly translated as a
fatal loophole for Kuryakin. Not that
Illya was incompetent, but survival in the field for them had always been the
partnership. He had always vowed to be
there for his friend. Now he was forced
to break that code and it was killing him by inches as he approached his
inevitable removal from the front lines of espionage.
***
Emotions
vacillated wildly on the trip to HQ.
Solo went from anger, to helpless irritation, to emotional sentiment at
the inevitability of the end. Then he convinced
himself in the silent taxi ride that he was being silly, that somehow he could
still be useful as an agent behind a desk.
And while not actively collaborating with Kuryakin, he could still enjoy
their friendship.
Entering
the grey reception area brought a lump to his throat. It would not be like this ever again, he knew
as he allowed the reception agent to pin his triangular badge on his
lapel. She flirted with Illya, who
ignored her advances.
"Mr.
Waverly wants to see both of you," she reported, miffed at her rejection.
Solo
could not bring himself to formulate a response and moved off. Kuryakin hurried to keep up with Solo's
turgid gait down the long, cold corridor leading to the elevators. At the door to Waverly's office Napoleon
found he could not move forward.
Stepping literally into his Fate was wrenching. After a moment, he glanced at his friend, who
gave a slight nod of his head -- in support, in friendship --in solidarity the
blue eyes read. Offering a slight smile
-- bravely he hoped -- Solo took a deep breath and stepped forward, the
automatic doors opening and swallowing them into the office.
It
seemed hard to breathe suddenly, and Solo stood at attention, too stiff with
apprehension to move or speak. Illya
mirrored his stillness.
"Gentlemen,"
Waverly nodded, preoccupied with a paper he was reading
He
barely glanced up at them, and then turned his attention back to the page. "I have a disturbing report from
Solo
wondered why the boss was telling him this, it would not be his concern
anymore, and it would be up to Illya now.
Was it to torture him? He dare
not ask. He wanted to hold onto this as
long as possible. As long as he stood
here, he was still Number one Section Two.
"I
know you’ve just returned, but I must ask you to see to this personally."
"Uh
-- " Solo could take the torment no longer. "Sir -- uh --"
"Take
up the details with travel, please."
This time he did look up and stare at Solo. "Oh, yes, the matter of your age. I have informed the other Section One leaders
that events in these perilous times have outstripped some of our old
traditions. Time to progress. I have repealed the mandatory retirement from
Section Two at age Forty. Unless, of course, you would like to retire
from the field, Mr. Solo?"
Coughing,
holding back a laugh/cry/miserable/joyous scream, Solo cleared his throat. "Uh, no sir, I -- uh -- would be happy
to remain in the field."
"Fine. Then your status as head of Section Two has
not changed. Please report to me as soon
as you know something about these terrorists.
Good luck, gentlemen. Oh, and
happy birthday, Mr. Solo."
Just
outside the doors, Solo sagged against the wall. Shaking his head, he laughed, staring at
Kuryakin.
"That
was it?"
A slow
grin spread across the Russian's face.
"Apparently," was the dry observation. "He didn't even give us a chance to
offer all our rebuttals and arguments."
"No,
he didn’t."
Feeling
a bit jaunty, Solo started walking.
Kuryakin fell into step beside him, just where he belonged.
The
smirk was clear in the Russian’s tone.
"I think I owe you an apology.
I failed to buy you a present."
"I
think this year the old man topped anything you could come up with,
tovarich."
"Yes. I'm very happy that he did, old friend. And it is a happy day, is it not?"
“It is. A very happy birthday."
THE END