The Rookie
By Cheriyuconovich
Round Three

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.

Classification: T for Teen (or used to be PG-13 or so)

Author's Notes: Only a handful of agents went through Survival School with
better marks. Why does everyone seem to think she's a THRUSH mole when
no one questioned the others?

Pairing: Unknown



Napoleon didn't know why he hadn't seen it coming when it finally hit. He
walked back to his office carrying a familiar dossier and trying to find a
way to gently break it to his partner that they were going to be saddled
with New York's newest field agent. As he walked in the door of the office
they shared, it became obvious that there wasn't a gentle way to break the
news and it was no longer news.

His eyes slid appreciatively over the black cashmere hugged slender figure
of Agent Yuconovich. She was seated on the couch, her legs crossed at the
knee. Black suede leather boots clung to her calves, stopping just short of
the hem of her skirt. Unlike the last time he saw her, the silken blue-black
hair was caught back in a simple silver clasp. On the whole, he liked what
he saw.

It was obvious from the poker face his partner wore that he was unimpressed
with the lady's looks. Illya was steadfastly working on the pile of reports
on his desk and ignoring his company. A part of his mind was berating the
rest of it for not seeing this complication coming. It was difficult enough
keeping up with Napoleon when the lures were on the opposition side or were
innocently enough entangled in the situation. Having this woman here, in
their midst, so to speak …. Bah. Napoleon would be impossible.

Cheri rose to shake hands with Napoleon, casting a curious look over to the
taciturn Russian who remained immersed in his work. She turned back to New
York's CEO and smiled. “Mr. Solo,” she finished greeting him and retrieved
her hand. “Mr. Kuryakin seems less than pleased with my assignment to your
partnership.” Better to face the issue now than to let it build up steam.

“All new agents are assigned to partners,” Napoleon assured her, ignoring
the fact that normally it was one seasoned agent to one rookie, not two to
one.

“So I understand. This should be interesting. Anything I can do to help?”
She gestured to the pile of folders on his desk and managed to include the
ones Illya was working on.

“Can you type?”

She swallowed the instant retort that rose to her lips. Asking the CEO if he
ever actually read the dossiers on his desk was a bit too insulting for now.
“Yes. I'm too cheap to pay someone to type my papers so I learned how. Mind
you, if there aren't any notes to work from, my fingers tend to invent
flights of fancy …” She let the thought trail off. If he was willing to take
a chance on letting her type the reports, then any embellishments, or
omissions, were his responsibility.

“Dictation?”

“If you mean shorthand, no. Never interested. I was definitely the “go in
the field and dig the mummy out of its grave” type as opposed to the “oh,
here, let me fetch coffee and type up your notes” sort. Didn't make me a lot
of friends among the big names at the university, of course, but it kept my
ego in tact.”

“You certainly seem to have that,” Napoleon shot back a little more sharply
than intended. He tried one of his warm smiles to counteract his comment and
received a gleaming one in return. Good, the lady didn't take umbrage at
blunt comments. “I know everything's in your dossier, but I'd like answers
for myself. Why UNCLE?”

“It's international. Actions are judged on …. Good and Evil seems a little
basic, but the organization doesn't let ideology get in the way of common
sense… most of the time.”

“You think it does sometimes?”

“How the hell do I answer that?” She shook her head slightly and gave a half
grin. “No one is perfect. No matter how much you believe in an ideal,
sometimes your background is going to get the better of you. I suspect that
not everyone in this office is happy to have Mr. Kuryakin here … or wasn't
in the beginning. I've heard the rumors of KGB background. I know there are
some people even in the UNCLE who are phobic … Russian phobic, Communist
phobic, because they were raised to be that way. That's hard to put aside,
even with the best will in the world.” She stopped for breath. “Of course,
my dad was 1st generation Russian emigrant, so they're not quite so alien
where I'm concerned.” She looked down at her feet for a moment and shook her
head before miming kicking something out from under them, then peeped back
up at Napoleon before lifting her head. “Sorry, I occasionally develop a
soapbox at the oddest moments.”

Without meaning to, Napoleon found he responded to her devastating
directness. He wasn't sold on her by any means, but he also wasn't as
inclined to condemn as he might have been earlier. “So we're not perfect.”

“No. We're not.”

He noted the slight emphasis on the “we” as she agreed with him. “Pull up a
chair, pick a file, start asking questions.”

The morning passed swiftly as Cheri asked astute questions and developed a
knack for knowing where more detail was needed and where “the usual” could
be filled in on the report. By noon the pile of files on both desks was
minimized. Napoleon signed off on all the finished reports which would then
be typed up by the typing pool rather than the new kid on the field agent
block.

Ever the debonair and thoughtful, Napoleon suggested a shared lunch. He wasn
't surprised when Illya demurred, noting the last couple of files on his
desk. Cheri's “thanks, but no thanks” did surprise him. “Turning down your
superior?” The words and tone were mild, but the dark eyes were sharp.

“Shopping. I have a new loft to outfit and time has not been something I
have a great deal of, Mr. Solo. I would at least like drapes on the windows,
so I'm off and running.”

“Hold on a minute.”

“Yes?” He handed her a note card with a name and address on it. Her eyebrows
rose in inquiry. “This is?”

“The place I purchased my last set of drapes for my apartment. Reasonable
prices. Good quality. Worth taking a look.”

She regarded him thoughtfully, weighing the pros and cons of accepting his
help in this matter. “Thank you.”

End Round Three

 


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.