Type: Slash
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters on the Man From
U.N.C.L.E. tv series
The physical exertion hadn't been enough to dispel his gloomy mood and he still felt like biting someone's head off. Right now, he needed to wash, so he grabbed a towel and a bar of soap and headed for the shower. As he walked by a few of his fellow agents, one of them said in a stage whisper, "You filthy Russian."
Illya turned towards the man and held up the soap for emphasis, while he stated, "You can see that I am about to cleanse myself, you blockhead." The men snickered in reply.
These particular men had given Illya a difficult time from the start. They treated most newcomers to some hazing, but it generally ended quickly and amicably. Illya lacked the necessary social skills to resolve the hostility in a congenial manner.
Instead, he masked himself behind a glacial exterior and hid his true feelings. So far, his friendships were limited to his fellow scientists in the lab. He was determined to fit in the best he could, but he just didn't know how. Everything had been so much easier for him in Europe. He wished again that he could have stayed there.
Illya continued on his way. The showers were lined up along a tiled wall in a shared area rather than in separate stalls. Illya chose the one closest to the end and hung his towel on a peg. He placed his soap in the recessed holder and began stripping off his work out clothing. Now that he was naked, he padded across the tiles and tossed the dirty laundry into a bin. Then he headed back beneath the shower spout.
The water was centrally regulated, so he pressed the metal knob on the wall and hoped it wouldn't be too chilly today. In any case, he took at least one shower a day at headquarters. He was aware that Americans placed a great deal of emphasis on personal hygiene. He was determined to excel in that area without relying on the myriads of scented products that almost all Americans, including the men, seemed to find necessary. Deodorant was the only concession he allowed himself to make.
Illya allowed the water to embrace him as he thought about his present plight. Yesterday, he'd received a call from the housing department telling him to vacate his apartment. It had been their third call this past week regarding the matter. They'd said that it was their last warning.
The apartment had been assigned to Illya on a temporary basis while he acclimated himself to his new country. Now it was time to allocate the unit to someone else. He was expected to find another place and leave the premises.
Illya had made an appointment with Mr. Waverly to discuss the situation. This was the first place that he'd ever felt possessive about. Perhaps it was due to the fact that he'd never known such privacy before. Privacy was a suspect concept in the Soviet Union. In his homeland, it was thought that anyone who isolated themselves had something to hide.
Illya had no intention of moving. He'd memorized every crack on the ceiling. He knew the exact route the mice took each night when they foraged for food. The nooks and cranies of the walls were as familiar to his fingertips as his own face. No, he wasn't about to move. He'd already moved too many times over the course of his lifetime. This was his apartment. His home. He would make Mr. Waverly understand. He had to.
Illya felt his eyes well up with tears. He ordered himself to stop such behavior. This would never do. Americans hated emotionalism in men. Damn, he hated it himself. He preferred drowning his feelings with a good bottle of vodka. But the tears weren't to be denied no matter how hard he tried. Maybe it was the thoughts of moving that caused him to need some sort of release. At any rate, they dribbled down his face. He was thankful that they were masked by the shower water.
His finely honed agent's sense alerted him to the fact that he was being watched. He silently cursed the tears, but he kept his features from showing any signs of distress. The tears were washed away and he was thankful that he'd at least,cried silently. Then he shifted his head to the left and surreptitiously glimpsed at his observer.
Napoleon Solo, Mr. Waverly's heir apparent, was lathering up. He candidly returned Illya's gaze. Illya quickly turned away and pretended to be engrossed in his own lathering. But as he soaped his cock and then his balls, he could tell that he was still under scrutiny.
"He couldn't have noted my tears," Illya assured himself. This was the first time that he'd seen Napoleon Solo in here. Napoleon had always used the gym at a different time. Illya rubbed the soap thoroughly around his ass and wondered what the man found so fascinating about him taking a shower.
But couldn't give the matter much more thought because it was time to prepare for his appointment with Waverly. Illya let the last of the suds drip off of him. He left the shower and retrieved his towel, wrapping it tightly around his waist.
Illya walked towards his locker at the far end of the room. He had the back area all to himself. The hostile clique had done an excellent job in isolating him. People that would have ordinarily been friendly to him didn't want to find themselves avoided as well. It just wasn't worth the effort.
Only one person seemed intent on communicating with him, but he wasn't the type of person Illya wanted as an acquaintance. The man preferred to remain anonymous for the time being. That was fine as far as Illya was concerned. Illya would be pleased if the man chose to stop taping the same imbecilic note to his locker every day.
Even now, Illya saw that there was an envelope taped to the outside of his locker. He already knew the content of the note that was folded inside. But he opened it anyway.
As usual, Illya opened his locker, took out his magic marker, and corrected the grammar. He was an avid reader and detested the man's desire for illiteracy. But the fact that the fellow saw fit to brag about it was bizarre, to say the least. The note was written in block letters and said, "BETTER DEAD THAN RED."
Illya wrote on the other side of the note, "If you prefer death rather than becoming well read, that is your own concern. At least, learn to spell the word correctly. It is read. Not red. If you change your mind; I am willing to lend you a volume of Russian poetry." He put the note back inside of the envelope and retaped it to the locker.
Illya saw that this time, the man had left him some sort of gift as well. There was a small paper bag on the bench next to his locker.
He'd dress first and look at the gift afterwards. He toweled off the excess moisture. Then he took his black suit and white shirt out of his locker. He had carefully rolled everything up before placing the clothing into his locker in an effort to smooth down the wrinkles. He'd even polished his shoes. Illya knew that Mr. Waverly often frowned upon his appearance. Today, he wanted to make a good impression on his superior.
He dressed quickly, making sure to button and tuck in his clothes correctly, before straightening his tie. Then he sat on the bench and picked up the bag. He took out two identically wrapped long, soft items. They were manufactured by Kimberly-Clark, the same company which made Kleenex.
According to the wrapper, they were soft, even after hours of use. They were designed to help keep fluids in the center of the pad and were wonderfully absorbent. "I can see where that would be useful."
This was the super size for increased absorption and protection. They were to be used at those times when the flow was the heaviest. "I can use them in place of tissues or paper toweling."
They were called sanitary napkins. "I would be a fool to put something unsanitary across my face. These are disposable, but I shall use them numerous times. All I have to do is allow one to dry while the other is in use. They will spare me a great expense as far as tissues are concerned. No wonder the company keeps these things such a secret. I have never seen one advertised."
Illya stuck them in his breast pocket. They protruded , but he didn't mind. He'd forgotten his handkerchief and these would do just fine. Now it was time to see Mr. Waverly and plead his case. Illya smoothed the wrinkles in his clothing one last time and set off to make a good impression.