The Man From U.N.C.L.E.

How Do You Like Them Apples?

By Lucky_Ladybug

Notes: The characters are not mine and these assorted stories are! I had an idea a while back to make H.M. Wynant's character from The Fugitive episode Masquerade an U.N.C.L.E. agent. (Long story.) These are assorted short stories exploring his interaction with our canonical men from U.N.C.L.E. And while H.M. developed the character, who is called Pinto in the episode, he doesn't speak. So I had to develop a speech pattern for him based on how I interpreted his attitude and actions. This first piece has already been posted on the Livejournal community MFU 100, with my Insaneladybug account. All pieces, unless otherwise noted, have been written using those themes.

#32 - Gown

"Mr. Waverly has been quite cryptic today."

Napoleon glanced over as Illya spoke. The Russian was sitting at the console, adjusting dials and gazing into the static-filled screen that he was attempting to clear.

Napoleon shrugged in response. "Oh, I don't know," he said. "He's always rather cryptic, isn't he?"

"But this was right after he heard that news story about the runaway witness being sniped at by an assassin," Illya said. "He made a telephone call and then hastened out the door."

"I'm sure we'll learn all about it soon enough," Napoleon said from his perch on the edge of the table. "Mr. Waverly will probably be back any time now with the news. And it probably won't be as Earth-shattering as you're wondering, Illya."

"We shall see," Illya said calmly as he turned another dial.

xxxx

Mr. Waverly did not return until late that night. Illya, slumped over the still-broken console in exhaustion, only awakened when Napoleon tapped him on the shoulder.

"Oh, Illya? Mr. Waverly's back," Napoleon called. "And he has an announcement to make."

"Hmm?" Illya groaned, starting and then slowly moving back in the chair. "Mr. Waverly?"

"Yes, that's right," came Mr. Waverly's voice from the doorway. "If it isn't too much trouble, Mr. Kuryakin, would you and Mr. Solo join me in the corridor for a moment?"

Illya stumbled up, his hair falling into his eyes in his half-awake state. "Is anything wrong?"

"No, nothing is wrong," Mr. Waverly answered. "Not that I'm aware of, at least."

"Illya was wondering where you ran off to in such a hurry," Napoleon said. "I must admit, I've been growing rather curious myself."

"I was . . . collecting a new recruit for us." Mr. Waverly stepped into the hallway, his trusted agents right behind him.

Napoleon stopped short, baffled now. "You don't usually do that, Sir."

"I know, but the situation was most unusual and awkward." Mr. Waverly glanced back to him and Illya. "We need the extensive information the man has. And he most likely will have a contract out on his life, if he doesn't already."

"He?" Napoleon repeated. "Alas, then it's not that lovely young lady witness in the newspaper."

"She's married," Illya reminded him. "Is it her husband?"

"It isn't him, either," Mr. Waverly replied. "But it is someone connected with that case." He started walking again, leading them around a corner.

Two attendants were standing by, a gurney between them. On it, a dark-haired man raised up slightly, curiously, at the sounds of the voices and footsteps. The thin blanket around his shoulders slipped down, revealing the bandages and bruises along his shoulders and arms.

"Hey, Mr. Waverly," he called. "I took this thing off. I hate it." He held up the hospital gown in one hand, crumpled in his disdain of it.

Mr. Waverly stared at him. "You disrobed right in the corridor?!"

"Well . . ." The younger man grinned wickedly. "Of course not. I got into my clothes in the washroom. Some of my clothes, anyway."

One of the attendants sighed, throwing up his hands in exasperation. "We stopped him from putting on his shirt or jacket," he admitted. "He's still in pain from that fight, even if he won't agree. And he cracked several ribs. He needs to rest before engaging in any further strenuous activities."

"Yes, I quite agree," Mr. Waverly mused.

"Mr. Waverly, who is this man?!" Napoleon exclaimed.

"He doesn't exactly seem like U.N.C.L.E. material," Illya added, folding his arms.

"He isn't," Mr. Waverly replied. "But he is efficient at what he does. And, as unpleasant as it is, there are times when U.N.C.L.E. needs men with his . . . skills."

Napoleon suddenly stiffened. "He isn't the assassin," he gasped. Illya also stared.

"Lucius Bowen, at your service," the newcomer smirked. "Or I will be, when I'm not so under the weather."

Mr. Waverly nodded, looking tired. "He is the assassin. I offered him the choice of either staying at the hospital where he was and possibly being killed by an assassin himself, or coming with me, giving us the information he has about his former employer's criminal operations, and working with us to topple his empire."

Napoleon was gaping. "But Mr. Waverly . . . !" he cried with a wild gesture.

"He is aware that if he doesn't behave, the offer will be withdrawn," Mr. Waverly said calmly. "But one thing Mr. Bowen always is, is efficient. I don't believe we'll have any trouble from him."

Lucius nodded. "What's one employer or another?" he said. "Anyway, if I'm here, I can't be arrested for doing my job. I'll like that."

Mr. Waverly sighed. "I'm certain you will.

"Take him to his room, please," he addressed the attendants. "And see that he's kept secure."

"You'll be watching me, you mean," Lucius mused.

"Mr. Waverly would be a fool to trust you completely at this point," Illya spoke. "And Mr. Waverly most certainly isn't a fool."

Lucius shrugged. "Fine." He leaned back, allowing the weary attendants to wheel him down the hall. But he waved as he passed. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Waverly."

Mr. Waverly nodded in his direction. "You will."

Napoleon stared after them. "I know we have a division of assassins out of necessity, but him?" He shook his head. "This is going to be very interesting, to say the least. He's quite a character."

"I'm afraid you don't know the half of it, Mr. Solo," Mr. Waverly replied. "He has very particular tastes. He wanted one other item added to the offer."

Napoleon tilted his head to the side. "And what would that be, I wonder? A well-furnished apartment? A new gun? A beautiful secretary?"

"None of the above. He wants a lifetime supply of apples."

Both Napoleon and Illya were staring again. "Apples," Illya repeated.

"Out of everything he could have, he wants a common fruit?" Napoleon said in disbelief.

Mr. Waverly nodded gravely. "All the apples he can eat."

". . . And how many can he eat?" Illya wondered.

Mr. Waverly regarded him in all seriousness. "I daresay I'm afraid we'll find out."