Can't Live With Him
by Charlie Kirby

There are just some times that I want to kill my partner. Don't get me wrong, I love Illya; I really do... well, in a manly, brother loves brother way, that is. I mean, he's great in a fight, especially if there's explosives involved. He's got a wicked sense of humor that no one suspects. He doesn't tend to snore, is fairly neat and speaks more languages than Carter has little liver pills. He's smart, a good man to have at your back, compassionate, brave. Heh, it sounds like I'm describing a dog. What I mean is that I value him both as a partner and as a friend, but there are times when I want to throw him to the ground and throttle him.

Case in point - for the past month I have been flirting shamelessly with Betty Wilkensen, our new receptionist. I'm not really sure why... well, I am... actually. She's not exactly what I go for in a woman. I like mine petite, articulate enough to carry on a conversation, but not to the point of boredom. I prefer someone who knows fashion, how to comport herself in a social setting and, well, likes to do a bit more than just hold hands. Don't misunderstand me, I would never force myself on a woman, but if she's willing, so I am.

But there was something about Betty. She is actually about an inch taller than me and solid. Not fat, but not thin either. She wears no makeup, not even a fragrance. She is brilliant and has the fashion sense of a gnat on a bee's knee. She doesn't know a salad fork from a fish fork (and doesn't care) and thinks a demitasse is some sort of French underwear. She speaks her mind and doesn't approve of premarital sex. Worst of all, she has the world's biggest crush - on my partner, of all people. Now do you understand my confusion as to infatuation with her?

I suspect it has something to do with her fascination with Illya. I will admit that one of my pastimes is snatching women out from under Illya's nose. He doesn't usually care, although every once in a while, he'll kick up a fuss and I back off. Mostly it's not that I want the women, I just want him to know how easy it is for me to take what's his. Yes, that's not very nice, but I'm not always a very nice man. In my line of work, that's a good thing.

We came in through the agents' entrance, with me in the lead, as usual. Betty knew we were coming and had our badges ready. She handed Illya his; he likes to pin it on himself... he's gotten poked one too many time by infatuated receptionists, of which Betty is one. Mine she pins to my lapel and I catch her hand and give the back of it a kiss.

"Betty, my sweet, when will you let me take you away from all of this?"

"You mean the reception area?" No sense of humor either... did I mention that?

"I mean you and me, tripping the Light Fantastic at the Caribbean Zone. A little song, a little dance --"

"And Waverly will have your head on a lance if you make him wait any longer," my impatient partner interrupts and Betty beams at him as if he'd just recited the Magna Carta.

"What magic can I bait you with?" I ignore him. I've had lots of practice ignoring him. Betty looks longingly over at Illya and sighs.

"The problem with magic, Mr. Solo, is that there's always a trick to it and I don't like being tricked. Mr. Waverly is waiting for you."

I know defeat, even when I don't accept it. If my namesake had been a bit more clued into that, he might have come to a much better end.

Once we were in the elevator, I sighed heavily.

"What is your attraction with Miss Wilkensen, Napoleon? It is obvious that she doesn't fancy you." Every once in awhile, Illya's British past creeps out in the form of an odd word or phrase.

"I don't know. She's just so unattainable. Makes her a challenge." I rocked back and forth on my heels, my mind already scheming with ways to breach the front she'd erected. "Maybe a double date."

"With whom?"

"Well, you and someone else, I suppose. It takes four to double date."

I was spared his answer by the elevator arriving at Waverly's floor. I won't bore you with the details of our last assignment. I'd have to kill you if I did.

It was a routine start to the God-awful amount of paperwork that one of our affairs generated. Aside from having to put down on paper, detail-by-detail, blow-by-blow, exactly what we did, there were also vouchers to fill out for hotels, food, and other things. My wardrobe tends to take a beating... Illya's would if he wore anything other than plain, dark, off-the-rack suits and equally undistinguished shirts.

"So, what do you say?" I asked and Illya looked at me, obviously clueless.

"About what, Napoleon?"

"You and me, a double date."

There was a flash of something in Illya's eyes, but he covered it almost immediately. He hadn't dated anyone since Alice Baldwin and he was still smarting over her. It wasn't his fault or even hers; it was UNCLE's and Mr. Waverly's. It was fine when they were casually dating, but once they got serious, Waverly stepped in. Illya had been stagging it since.

"I'm not --"

"Betty would give her eye teeth to go out with you." He blinked at my change in tactics. It was nice to know I could still surprise him.

"But you...?"

"We go out on a date and she sees what a great guy I am, next time, she might be more willing."

It took me awhile, but finally I bullied him into it and as I predicted, she jumped at the opportunity.

Now, you are still wondering why I want to kill my partner... it's coming, be patient. I got Stacy, a sweet little thing from Armory, to agree to a date, made reservations at the Caribbean Zone and we were on our way, no surprises, just an evening of fun and frivolity. Before setting out, I checked my pockets - comb, money clip, communicator and condoms - a good agent is prepared for every event and I'm a very good agent.

We couldn't get everyone into my Jag, so I borrowed a nondescript sedan from the motor pool and picked up my partner. I knew where Stacy lived, boy, did I know where Stacy lived. Up town, very posh address, but what really surprised me was where Betty lived. An apartment at The Dakota - that's living high, even from my point of view. She lived there with her older brother, she explained. Illya looked at her strangely for a moment and his usual bland mask settled into place. I noted it, but didn't say anything.

We get to the restaurant and Betty wasn't quite the social disaster I expected, nor was she interested in anything except talking science with Illya. Seems she had a Masters in microbiology and the two of them immersed themselves into the world of test tubes and Petri dishes. There was a little nagging itch going off in my head and I couldn't quite put a finger on it. Illya excused himself and left the table, heading for the men's room.

Once he returned, he started slamming back his drinks as fast as they came. While I knew he had an enormous capacity for alcohol, I was a little concerned. He was starting to get a bit looser and that also struck me as odd. Illya was not one to lose control, ever.

"What's going on with you tonight, Napoleon?" Stacy half shouted in my ear. The music here was pretty loud and we were on the dance floor.

"Nothing, why do you ask?"

"You can't take your eyes off Betty and I'm your date." She was right and I smiled an apology.

"I'm just worried about Illya," I lied easily. "This is the first time he's been out in awhile and I want to make sure he's having fun."

"He's having a ball. I'm not."

Whoops, that was my wakeup call and I made sure that for the next three numbers, I had eyes for her alone. When we got back to the table, it was empty. I looked around the restaurant, but didn't see either of them. As I was sitting down, a scrap of paper fell out of my napkin. 'Got lucky! I.' was written on it.

"Napoleon, what's wrong?" I handed her the note and she scanned it and handed it back to me. "So?"

"That's not Illya's handwriting and that's not something Illya would write - ever." I signaled the waiter. "Let's go see what Miss Wilkensen has to say about it, shall we?"

"Wouldn't they go back to Illya's place?"

"Stacy, my sweet, think about it." I dug out my Diner's Club card. "How long have you known me?"

"About three years."

"Have you ever seen the inside of my apartment?"

"No, not that I can recall."

"Rule number one with agents, we never take a date home. It would be a breach of security and protocol. That means they would head for her place."

"Or a hotel room."

"Not Illya. He's not that fast a mover." I signed the receipt, added a nice tip and stood to help her up.

"But she lives with her brother."

"So she says... but she was awfully interested in something Illya was working on." We collected her mink stole and headed outside. The car was where we'd parked it, but there was something wrong. All my senses were shouting a warning and I always listen when they do that. It's probably why I'm still alive now.

"Stacy, don't get any closer to the car." I dug out my communicator and called in for a retrieval squad. "Let's take a taxi instead." I hurried her away, back towards the club, looking over my shoulder at the vehicle.

"What's wrong?"

"When we parked, the car was facing the opposite direction." Just then a pigeon landed on the car and New York City was suddenly short one pigeon, not that it would miss it. The whole car seemed to glow blue.

"Napoleon...?"

"Somebody left us a present. Whatever came of this night, they wanted to make sure it was our last." I got my communicator out and barked a warning into it, while using my free hand to flag down a taxi. "Records, please."

We climbed into the back of the taxi and I twisted as I sat to hide the communicator. "The Dakota please and step on it." The drive took off with enough enthusiasm to slam us back into the seat.

"Records." The voice from the communicator was tinny and Stacy leaned forward to block me from view as I hunkered down to talk into my pen.

"I need a background search for Betty Wilkensen, more importantly, her brother. I'll hang on." Literally; the taxi took the next corner on two wheels. Any faster and he'd qualify for his pilot's license.

"Napoleon, I just went through the files. It says that she has no brother or any living relatives at all." That explained Illya's expression.

We pulled up in front of the Dakota and I tipped our driver heavily. He drove away a happy man and I approached the doorman. It took a bit of a song and dance to get in the door and weasel Betty's apartment number out of the man, but I'm very good at both. And the fifty I slipped him didn't hurt either.

I found a quiet corner and reopened the channel back home. While Stacy kept a look out, I hurriedly explained my suspicions and asked that they start a trace on us. That accomplished, I led the way to the elevator. Once inside, I shot my cuffs and removed my cufflinks. One I dropped into my pocket and the other I handed to Stacy.

"Put that some place safe."

She tucked it into her ample cleavage, lucky tracer, and frowned at me. "Napoleon, what's going on?"

"Our Miss Wilkensen is not what she appears and Illya knows it." I took her by the shoulders and smiled at her, my most charming, most comforting smile. "Stacy, you're going to have to trust me like you've never trusted me before. Just follow my lead and when in doubt, play dumb."

"Why?"

"It may save your life." She frowned and nodded. The elevator doors slid open and we were looking at three rather nasty looking mugs with three even nastier looking guns.

She giggled and waggled her fingers at the closest one. "Hi cutie, what's your name?"

The man stared and reached for me. "Come on, Solo, your partner's waiting for you."

They dragged us out and over to an apartment door, knocked, and the second it opened, we were shoved inside.

Illya was sitting there, feet splayed out in front of him. He waggled a hand at us. "Hi."

"Um, Illya, are you okay?" A movement caught my eye and I glanced over to see Betty approaching us. The gun in her hand looked very businesslike.

"Oh, he's more than fine. I will be delighted to let THRUSH know just how successful their newest truth serum is. I barely had to scratch his skin and he began to sing."

"You... you..." Stacy was sputtering and Illya laughed.

"That's right you tell her." Stacy knelt beside Illya and hugged his head to her chest. "You got nice bazooms." His voice was muffled by the aforementioned nice bosoms.

"Of course, all that alcohol probably helped. Pity his self control is so weak." Betty pushed Stacy aside and took her place, tipping back Illya's head to study his eyes.

"And you don't have any at all," Illya mumbled and I tried not to laugh. You have to love the stuff that comes out of a drugged partner at times. Now, Illya had more self control than ninety percent of the agents I know. Either whatever she gave him was lethal or... and right then, I could swear Illya winked at me.

Betty twisted Illya's head to the side and he flopped over, giggling. I've heard Illya shout, cry, scream, and make about every other noise in between, but never had I heard something like that. It sent chills down my spine.

"Mr. Kuryakin and I have been talking about Project Kaboom."

Okay, I didn't have a clue what Project Kaboom was and I could tell neither did Stacy, but Betty didn't have to know that.

"Illya, you didn't...?"

"Kaboom," he repeated as he struggled to sit up. He waved his arms in the air frantically.

"Illya, I thought you were one of us. You aren't supposed to cooperate!"

"He didn't have any choice, Mr. Solo. I've already radioed the information to my superiors. They were very excited." Betty snapped her fingers and one of the underlings came forward. He bent over and tried to catch one of those waving arms. Dumb; Illya clipped him in the chin and the man dropped like a rock.

"Oops..." Illya giggled again.

"You moron!" Betty snapped at the man on the floor and kicked him in the ribs. He didn't move. One down, three to go. She swung back to me. "Mr. Kuryakin tells me this project is being protected under a red label. I don't know what that means, Mr. Solo, and I very much want to know."

"Sorry." I hunched my shoulders. "That's a need to know," and, brother, did I need to know.

"And if I shoot her, will that loosen your lips?"

Illya had gotten to his feet and was staggering around in a circle, shouting "Whee!" If the situation wasn't quite as grave, I'd be laughing by now. He suddenly tripped and the nearest THRUSH tried to catch him. Illya snagged him with one hand, the second THRUSH with the other and yanked. I winced at the sound of their two heads coming together as he dropped back down.

Betty took a step, but I wasn't close enough to grab her. Stacy, on the other hand, let go with a punch worthy of Smokin' Joe Frazier. She knocked Betty off her feet and followed. I grabbed the gun and waited to see what would happen. Betty outweighed Stacy by a few pounds, but that didn't matter.

I went over and helped Illya to his feet. Suddenly sober, he brushed off his jacket and glanced over to where Stacy was beating the poochies out of Betty.

"Should we stop them?"

"Eventually." I grinned. "So... Project Kaboom?"

Illya looked around and found a magazine. On the back of it, there was an advertisement for Kaboom, a new laundry detergent. "Floor wax, laundry detergent. If nothing else, THRUSH will be the tidiest bad guys around."

Stacy got to her feet and straightened her skirt.

"Nice shooting, Tex," I drawled.

"Never underestimate the reasoning ability of a good right cross."

The front door to the apartment was kicked in at that point and we froze until I recognized the lead agent as one of our own.

Illya was massaging the inside of one of his arms and making a face. "Remind me the next time we double date to not double date."

"You're not drunk... or drugged?" Stacy asked, examining the run in her stocking.

He smiled shyly over at Stacy. "No, when I left the table I made a side trip to the bar. Everything they delivered to me was non-alcoholic."

"It's called virgin, Illya." He gave me a 'I know that' look and I grinned even more.

"And I do apologize for my earlier comment, Miss Crua."

"Nothing to apologize for, Mr. Kuryakin." She smiled brilliantly at him and snagged his arm. "But you can take me home."

He grinned then and saluted me. "And Napoleon, you were so desperate to spend the evening with Betty, you have your wish."

"Illya --" I started.

"You're senior agent by two years, as you frequently point out. In the matter of infiltration and subterfuge, the senior agent must assume the responsibility of interrogating the suspect."

So, off he goes, in the warm embrace of our ample-chested Stacy, leaving me behind with a groggy double agent, three unconscious THRUSH thugs and more questions than I have answers for.

Some days, I could just kill him...