Work Text:
The door closed silently behind Kuryakin and he let the moment hang, allowing the Russian to wonder just what was going to happen next.
"A word, Mr. Kuryakin?" He'd said, then seen the way he responded to that tone but didn't wonder at it, thinking what it might say about the relationship between Kuryakin and his handler - he knew Oleg of old and he was never the most subtle of men. He'd use Kuryakin the same way as he did all his agents, as a blunt instrument, but then when you think the only tool you have is a hammer then every problem is a nail. "I think you know what this is about."
A little uncertainty there, just enough to provide an element of doubt about the outcome of this meeting. He'd need a different tactic to handle Kuryakin than he would to get the same response from Solo. That one, nobody would tell him what to do if he could manage to squirm away, even if that resistance was only mental and not physical. He'd like the idea of breaking Solo to his will, but that would be a waste and he was no Oleg either.
He could imagine how Kuryakin might respond to a slightly kinder hand, but would it really be the way he thought, after all these years? Perhaps if he'd had the Russian from younger, before the KGB and their ham-fisted tactics had taken the edge off him, then it might have been a different matter altogether. Personally he'd always found a combination of the carrot and the stick the most effective way to deal with a young agent, but so often he was too late to train them to how he wanted them to be.
He tried to imagine what a younger Kuryakin might have been like - almost starstruck, perhaps, if he'd taken him under his wing and taught him everything he knew, everything he'd learned from his own experience in the field. He'd never been an exemplary agent, too fond of his own way and a lot more like Solo than he cared to think about. And of course, there had been his particular weakness, the thing that had kept him from truly scaling the heights and replacing C.
At least he couldn't be blackmailed easily, considering that everyone above him knew of his predilection for his fellow man. And a man like Kuryakin, especially a younger and less bitter version, would have been meat and drink to him. He could imagine, not using his postion per se, that would be a degree of coercion that wouldn't work in this most intimate fantasy, but persuading Kuryakin of the benefits an assignation with him would bring. Not favouritism, but a small degree of partiality never hurt anyone and would be a downright advantage to someone in his position, counteracting the frostiness of his nation's relationships with the rest of the world.
He took a moment to consider what that would have been like, perhaps the opportunity to undress the Russian slowly, getting below those hideously unflattering clothes to the solid flesh beneath, skin improbably smooth beneath his own fingertips. This Kuryakin, after all, did not bear any of the scars of his real counterpart.
He'd be appreciative, of course, glad to do whatever Waverly asked of him in all ways. Obliging to the extreme, laid out over his desk like an offering perhaps, legs spread and all possibilities equally enticing. Or maybe he'd curl up under the desk, impossibly flexible as he knelt out of sight, using his mouth in secret as Waverly continued (as best he could, all things considered) with the business of the day. The illicitness of the latter concept was added titillation, the thought that he could have such a force of nature curled up at his feet, giving him pleasure while others thought him only engaged in work was enough to make him respond despite himself.
"Have I done something wrong, sir?" Kuryakin asked, bringing him back to the present and back to reality with a jolt.
"Not at all, Mr. Kuryakin," he said, liking the way those simple words made the Russian visibly relax. He'd been right about Oleg, damn him, and the best way to handle agents - not that this was a surprise, the man was a dolt. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm very pleased with your work so far, very pleased indeed."
Kuryakin looked down at the floor and said nothing for a moment.
"Thank you, sir," he said, then looked up; his eyes were brighter than before and, was it his imagination or did he hold Waverly's gaze a little longer than was really necessary? "I want you to be happy with me. Very much."