Author: Robin

Serial: Yes

Part :     Two

Type           General

Disclaimer     I don't own the characters on the Man From U.N.C.L.E. tv series
 

Illya was perplexed. People had often stared at him when he'd first arrived at headquarters. That was something that was to be expected by any new agent. But he noted with discomfort that they were doing it again. Almost everyone he'd passed in the corridor had done a double take upon seeing him. He had stared back at everyone in his frostiest manner and strode purposefully ahead. He was determined to ignore the snickering and whispered comments.

"Is my fly undone?" he wondered. He'd need privacy to check the zipper. Fortunately, the elevator was just a little bit further away. He hastened his footsteps and reached it within minutes. Then he stood stoically in place and feigned indifference while he waited.

The elevator arrived and as soon as the doors slid open, Illya dashed inside. He sighed gratefully upon finding it unoccupied. He pressed the button for Waverly's floor and waited impatiently for the doors to slide closed. Then he ran a finger down his fly. Everything checked out satisfactorily.

The elevator stopped at the next floor and two people boarded. Illya knew them only by sight. The man was a fellow Section Two agent. The woman worked in the acounting division. They pressed the buttons for their respective floors and after doing so, the woman stepped to the side and faced forward. The man was a different matter entirely.

With a huge grin, he turned to Illya and asked, "Is it that time of month again?"

"What in the world is the proper response to that?" Illya wondered. He knew that *have a nice day* only called for a *thank you, you too* in return. A comment about the weather could be acknowledged with a knowing nod. This was a new expression and Illya considered the possible list of salutations. He decided to keep it simple. A short reply was best.

"Possibly," Illya said.

"You don't know for sure?" The man's grin grew even wider.

"Not yet. I need to correlate the data before I am certain." Perhaps an open ended answer was the solution.

The man still wasn't satisfied. He almost doubled over with laughter as he asked, "What data would that be?"

"It is classified," he said. He stared at the closed doors and thought, "There, that should do it."

The agent disembarked at the next floor. Illya could still hear his laughter as the doors closed.  Now it was the woman's turn to approach him. She held out her hand and smiled tentatively as she said, "Perhaps you'd allow me to get rid of them for you."  She indicated his pocket with the sanitary napkins partially displayed.

"They may be disposable, but they are mine to dispose of," Illya said in an affronted tone.

"I'm only trying to help."

"What nerve!" Illya thought. "To help herself is more like it. She can acquire her own." He faced forward and decided to ignore her. She shrugged helplessly and was silent for the remainder of the ride. Then she stepped out at her floor and exited without a backwards glance.

The elevator took Illya to Waverly's floor and he disembarked. He went to the receptionist desk and confirmed his appointment with Mr. Waverly. Heather McNab was stationed at the desk.  She had a high level of clearance within the U.N.C.L.E. since her duties generally consisted of acting as a secretary as well as an assistant to Mr. Waverly.

"Why don't you leave those with me?" she asked.

"I have no intention of doing so. Now please inform Mr. Waverly that I am here."

"You're sure about that?"

"Why is every woman after my sanitary napkins?" Illya asked rhetorically. He demanded again that she buzz the intercom and inform their superior of his presence.

She rolled her eyes in exasperation, but she complied with his request. As he walked towards the sliding doors that lead into Mr. Waverly's office, she said to his receding back, "I was only trying...."

"To help," Illya finished for her. The door slid opened and he continued walking until he was inside. It slid closed behind him.

Mr. Waverly was sitting behind his desk. He handled one of his pipes while he regarded his Russian agent speculatively. Since Illya hadn't been asked to sit down, he stood rigidly at attention in front of the desk. This was the protocol he'd learned as a youth for standing before ones superiors.

"Perhaps my colleagues were right, after all," Waverly thought to himself. "They'd warned me not to bring a Soviet agent into the fold. Could my instincts have been so wrong? Illya Kuryakin's degrees are outstanding. He performed superbly in Survival School as well. But he's just not cutting it here."

Mr. Waverly leaned forward and demanded, "Do you consider this a joke, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"What could he possibly mean by that," Illya asked himself. Mr. Waverly was staring at him, waiting for an answer so he replied, "A joke? No, sir, not at all. I have brought you one of the housing forms which insist that I vacate my apartment. I wished to discuss this matter with you further."

Illya stepped forward to hand his superior the note across his desk. Mr. Waverly made no effort to reach for it, so Illya leaned across the desk and placed it down in front of him.

"I know all about the housing transfer. I'm referring to those things in your pocket. What's the meaning of this, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"I forgot my handkerchief."

"And you chose to wear a sanitary napkin instead?"

"I was not aware that it was against the dress code, sir."

"I never thought I'd have to say this, but from now on none of my men will be permitted to wear sanitary napkins. Consider that an order," Mr. Waverly said in a tightly controlled voice.

Then Mr. Waverly asked himself, "Was I so wrong about Illya Kuryakin? If accepting him as an agent was a mistake, then how many other mistakes have I made? I'll begin to second guess myself at every turn. Somehow, his being here must be made feasible."

Mr. Waverly looked up at Illya and to his great embarrassment, he saw that the man's eyes were filling with unshed tears. He'd opened one of the sanitary napkins and was using it to dab at them.

"For goodness sake, control yourself, man!" Mr. Waverly demanded.

Illya was mortified. He held back the threatening tears and attempted an explanation, saying, "Something must be irritating my eyes, sir".

Mr. Waverly cleared his throat and looked away. He wasn't fooled, but he'd give the young man a chance to regain his composure before talking to him.

"My conduct has been shameful," Illya thought. "I vowed as a child never to cry again. Yet today, I have wept almost twice. And in front of my superior, no less. What caused my inexcusable behavior?"

Deep down, he realized that it had been the look that had passed across Mr. Waverly's face. The look that said, "You're no longer wanted here." In the past, he had seen such a look on other faces. Each time that he'd seen that look, he'd suffered a heart-rending loss. He felt that Mr. Waverly wouldn't want him to remain with the U.N.C.L.E. now. How could he be trusted as a competent Section Two agent now that he'd shown such unseemly emotionalism?

Illya braced himself for the words that would send him away. He stood before his superior and awaited a verdict.