A/N As always, with grateful thanks to my beta Jay. I have since mess around with the story and as such, all mistakes and spelling errors are mine, and mine alone. So please do not steal them.

After Istanbul there was Rio de Janeiro, then Copenhagen, then Madrid, the jungles of Argentina and wherever else they were needed. But in between missions there was always London.

The British capital was the current U.N.C.L.E headquarters, although there had been rumours that the fledgling agency would relocate to New York at some point in the future. For now, however, home was London. U.N.C.L.E was well funded and Waverly had ensured his field teams were well looked after, and that included accommodation. Somewhere of their own, a place where they could shut out the world while they unwound from a mission.

Solo had taken full advantage of the offer and set himself up in an apartment in St James, a well-heeled part of London. His neighbours beautiful, rich and unsuspecting.

Gaby had chosen Chelsea, taking a far more modest flat. The area was full of music, fashion and clubs, a far cry from the quiet, dark, derelict streets of East Germany.

Illya had been happy with the small room that had been initially assigned to him at headquarters. Waverly, however, had politely, but firmly insisted that he should find more suitable and more spacious living quarters. Illya had grown frustrated with the search for somewhere to live, Solo and Gaby had tried to help, but he had been unable to articulate his discomfort at living amongst such decadent excess.

It was Waverly who came to his rescue, dangling a set of keys in front of him one day and rattling off an address. "Think you may find this suitable accommodation, Mr Kuryakin."

Illya had spent a few days just checking out the neighbourhood. It was in Whitechapel, one of the poorest parts of the city and the place that spawned the first serial killer. Although predominantly white, it wasn't predominately English. Besides for a few Jamaicans, and the Indian family that ran the local corner shop, virtually everyone else was either Irish or from the Soviet Union; Polish, Hungarians, Ukrainians and even some fellow Russians. Illya had often wondered what they would think if they knew they had a KGB agent living amongst them.

His flat was located in a featureless five storey red brick building that overlooked a small park. The flat itself was reasonably small by London standards, a bedroom, a living area, kitchen and bathroom, but Illya was used to living in barracks. His home in Russia was merely a single room on the second floor of the KGB training centre, consisting of nothing more than a single bed, a wardrobe and a desk. Illya had stood in the living room of his new accommodation and marvelled at the amount of light and space around him.

It had not been his intention to get to know his neighbours. As a spy it was always better to stay as anonymous as possible. There was also the fact that Illya didn't know how to socialise. He'd been extensively trained in undercover techniques, but was only able to maintain such pretence for only a few weeks and only during missions. When he was allowed free time Illya just wanted to be himself, a simple man with solitary habits. He'd also become accustomed over the years to being viewed as an oddity. His height alone set him apart. His frame was packed with lean muscle, his strength and speed were considered almost unnatural by some of his KGB colleagues. Their superstitious fears adding another obstacle to try and breach. It had served him well to keep his own company. His new neighbours, however, seemed to view him very differently.

Illya knew that, not only was he the youngest resident by several decades, he was also the only male. There was the occasional male visitor, a son, grandson, or a friend, but none that stayed for more than a few days at the very most. He had often wonder why Waverly would recommend a place that was populated by some of society's more vulnerable citizens. Perhaps a spy as a neighbour was not a good idea.

It all started with Mrs Ruth Rosen in 2B. Illya had found himself forcibly locked out of the electronics and surveillance lab at headquarters. After a tumultuous and turbulent exchange with the lab's head scientist, Illya was personally kicked out of the building by Waverly himself with a firm and threatening warning, by the Englishman's standards, not to return until mid-morning the following day at the earliest.

Illya had returned to his flat in a furious mood, caring little that Waverly's actions were motivated by concern over Illya's well-being and the fact that he hadn't slept in over thirty-six hours. As he stomped up the stairs he had passed Mrs Rosen on the first floor landing. She'd been leaning heavy on her walking stick with her shopping bags strewn around her. He was almost to the second floor when he'd paused, and turned back to look at the elderly woman. He'd retraced his steps.

"Is elevator not working?" he'd asked gruffly.

"Thought I could do with the exercise," she'd replied, still somewhat out of breath. Her German accent thicker than usual.

Illya had opened his mouth to snap out that she should take better care of herself when he'd noted her smile.

"You make joke?"

Her smile had widened. "A bad one," she conceded.

Illya had picked up her bags, holding them easily in one hand. He bent his other arm and offered her his elbow. She slid her arm through his and her bony, weathered hand grasped his forearm. They had slowly made their way up the rest of the stairs to Mrs Rosen's second floor flat. Illya carried her shopping in and placed it on her dining table and turned to leave.

"Thank you Mr… Kuryakin, isn't it?"

Illya had just nodded.

"I'll have to telephone Mr Watson, the landlord," she'd continued as she started to pull items from her shopping bags. "It took him nearly a week to get it fixed last time. Would you like some tea?"

"No. Thank you." Illya had replied. "I will fix elevator. No need to phone landlord."

"But that's not for you to do," Mrs Rosen had turned to face him, a bag of flour clutched in her hand. "That's for Mr Watson to arrange. A handsome, young man like you must have far better things to do with his time." She'd turned back to the table and missed Illya's blush.

"I don't mind. I … I'm not required at work until tomorrow. I am good with machinery," he reassured.

Mrs Rosen had nodded. "You're Russian, aren't you?" At that question Illya had tensed, knowing that this pleasant little exchange was about to end. Illy knew everything there was to know about his neighbours. He knew the Mrs Rosen had been born in Munich and was a Jew. That her own government had turned on her and sent her and her family to the concentration camps. Only Mrs Rosen had survived. Her husband, three sons, two daughters, and six grandchildren had perished. Murdered by the will of a mad man. Her only family was a sister who had managed to flee. But her route out of Germany took her East instead of West and she now lived with her husband and children in Berlin … behind the wall. A family never to be reunited. Illya nodded his head in answer to Mrs Rosen's question and waited for the stinging rebuke. "Then I'll make you some Beef Stroganoff as a thank you. I think I have all the ingredients." She'd moved into her kitchen, opening cupboard doors as she checked their content.

Illya, to say the least, had been flummoxed by the reply. He could speak several languages flawlessly, but he'd struggled with learning English and especially the accent, mastering neither an American nor an English one. So he showed his nationality every time he spoke the language. In the West, Russian meant Communist and Illya was usually subjected to others hostile opinions of his country. As he'd only ever been to the West during a mission, he'd had to take the abuse when all he'd wanted to do was rip the insolent Capitalist apart.

Illya had spent the next two hours fixing the elevator. It only required some simple maintenance to get it back up and running again. He'd also taken the opportunity to place some surveillance devices and a couple of canisters of knock-out gas into the elevator's roof … just in case.

Four hours later he'd had his cheeks pinched and kissed several times and his hair ruffled once, as the matrons of the building thanked him for his mechanical skills. He had also been gifted with a bewildering array of food, encompassing all the different cultures that made up his fellow tenants.

It also started a precedent. If anything needed fixing, Illya was the first port of call, regardless if it was a radio, a light fitting, a dripping tap, putting up shelves, or the one almost death-defying repair of a television aerial on the roof. In return Illya was kept well fed and for the first time, in a very long time, he was looked upon with the affection and protectiveness that only the elderly can bestow on those so much younger.

TMFU TMFU

Illya let out a huff of laughter as he wearily entered his flat and quietly closed the door behind him. It amused him that his thoughts had drifted back to the first few weeks of moving into his flat. Undoubtedly sparked by his ride in the elevator to the fifth floor as he was too tired and injured to walk up the stairs. He flicked on the lights as he walked into the living room, dropping his bag by the bedroom door as he passed by. The flat was cold and had the stale smell of being unoccupied for far too long.

He lowered himself carefully into the armchair that sat opposite a dusty, abandoned game of chess. With long fingers that trembled with exhaustion he pushed back his jacket and pulled the hem of his black turtleneck up until it revealed the bandage wrapped around his stomach, an inch or two above his hips. A thick pad of gauze protected a knife wound on his left side that he had received as their latest mission for U.N.C.L.E came to a climactic end. The pristine white over the wound was now spotted with blood.

The wound was deep but Illya knew from experience that it hadn't sliced into any internal organs, just flesh and muscle. He'd managed to stitch the torn flesh together and bandage the wound away from the prying eyes of Solo and Gaby. But he knew he hadn't deceived them. They would be knocking on his door soon, or if Solo was feeling particularly daring, picking the lock open and barging his way in. The thought made him smile. Nearly a year on from that first mission in Rome and Illya knew that he had changed, for the better. Away from the cruel hold of his KGB handlers he'd been better equipped to control his psychosis. Although it could still overwhelm him at times, Gaby and Solo were able to help diminish the effects, and were able to make sure he didn't lose himself completely to the red fury raging inside him.

Then there was his harem of elderly ladies, as Solo called them. Who clucked and fussed over him when he came home supporting bruises, or fell asleep from exhaustion on their sofas when he should have been mending their toasters or sewing machines. They never asked what he did for a living – the wisdom granted to them through their long hard fought lives gave them that answer. They treated him as they would treat their own flesh and blood and Illya would willingly give his life for any of those precious women who made him feel wanted and loved.

Solo had attempted to usurp him in their affections, it was a challenge the thief was just unable to resist. They treated him as a naughty, rambunctious child, much to Solo's horror. They scolded him with the use of his given name and slapped away thieving hands with gentle admonishments. Solo spoke of them with annoyance and disdain, but would lean down for an affectionate pat on the cheek and would buy them new toasters or radios when they were too worn out for even Illya to fix.

Gaby was the recipient of the women's wise words, invited to the table when tea was served. Solo and Illya outcasts on low-slung sofas, dainty tea cups held gingerly in hands far too large for such fine china, but their banishment eased with generously cut slabs of Victoria sponge and requests for seconds never refused.

Illya leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. They would be here soon, Solo and Gaby and Illya's harem. They would chase away the pain and exhaustion of the mission. He would succumb to his body's needs of a healing sleep surrounded by those he trusted to protect him, to keep him safe. He would fade into the arms of Morpheus to the sound of laughter and of Solo arguing with the other cooks of the group over spices and dishes. A blanket would be pulled over him and a small body would ease down beside him, fingers interlacing with his. A soft kiss to his cheek would hold the promise of a future that had been for so long, so very uncertain.

A lonely man no more.