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He sits on one of the benches in St. James Park, flipping through that day’s copy of the Daily Mirror without actually taking in any of the information. How can he, when all he can focus on is whether or not the encoded message he had sent behind the wall had made it to its intended target? He had sent it three days ago, praying to a God he didn’t think he believed in that it would find its way into the correct hands. The only hands that mattered.
“You’re requesting what now, Solo?” he had asked, incredulous at the words that had just spilled from his agent’s mouth.
“A permanent transfer, sir, to UNCLE,” Solo responded, as blasé as ever. Sometimes it made him want to smack the younger man, how relaxed he always seemed to be. He held himself back, this time. This was a conversation for more subtle methods.
“You still owe this country three more years of service,” he said simply, erasing any emotion from his voice.
“And I will still be serving this country, as well as all the rest of them,” Solo responded, completely unruffled. He ground his teeth together in frustration.
“We don’t care about the others,” he said gruffly.
“But I do.”
Suddenly, someone sits down beside him on the bench. He forces himself not to look up from the newspaper, even if he can’t stop himself from leaning slightly into their warmth.
“Beautiful weather we are having,” the person says in heavily accented English, unfolding a newspaper of their own, and his heart soars. The message had made it. His prayers had worked. Nevermind the fact that it is bitterly cold and drizzling ever so slightly, because that voice alone is enough to warm him down to his toes.
“Oleg,” he says in greeting, keeping his eyes trained on the damp newspaper in front of him.
“Sanders,” the other man murmurs back, flipping through his own.
“I didn’t think you would come,” he says despite himself, his joy in having the KGB handler so close to him eclipsing the rather serious matter they are meeting to discuss.
“Of course I came,” Oleg replies easily. “I always come when you call.”
The words make his heart constrict in his chest. It’s the truth, after all, despite the fact that he hasn’t called in years. He had stopped for a reason, and they both knew it. He swallows past the lump in his throat.
“Do you know why I called?” he asks, looking up and down the riverbank. The awful weather has ensured that they are alone, and he feels safe enough to fold up his newspaper and set it down on his lap. Still, he doesn’t look at his companion. He doesn’t trust himself to.
“I assume that your agent, like mine, has requested a permanent transfer to UNCLE,” Oleg says, folding his own newspaper into his lap. The words are so shocking that he can’t resist glancing at Oleg from the corner of his eye. The man is staring straight ahead at the river, where the drizzling rain is creating infinite ripples over the surface.
“Kuryakin made the same request?” he asks in disbelief. Solo making the request made absolute sense - he hates the CIA, hates being attached to someone’s leash, and he isn’t quiet about that. But Kuryakin? If anyone relied on being chained to a master, it was that beast.
“I was just as surprised as you.” Oleg says, crossing his legs and relaxing further into the bench, “until I asked him why he would ever want to do such a thing.”
“And what did he say?”
Oleg seems to contemplate the question for a moment, as if he is weighing the options of telling the truth to a man who is supposed to be his sworn enemy, before he sighs heavily.
“That as much as he loves his country, he cannot deny that he wishes to save the whole world if he has the chance to do so.”
“Is it the other countries you care about, or is it the pretty chop shop girl you work so closely with when you’re saving them?” he asked, knowing Solo well enough by now to understand his motivations. He was surprised when Solo’s face became pink with indignation.
“Gaby has nothing to do with this,” Solo had hissed. It had sent him reeling. If it wasn’t the woman, then -
“They are in love with each other, your agent and mine,” Oleg says resolutely. And at that point, he cannot deny himself any longer. He looks at the man sitting next to him. He takes him in fully, feeling like the breath has been squeezed from his lungs, and he sees him in two different ways. He sees the old man sitting beside him, face lined with years of doing his duty, but he also sees the man he once was. He sees the bright eyed Russian of a bygone era, taking in the majesty of the New York skyline for the first time. He sees the smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes the first time he took a bite of New York style pizza. He sees the laugh lines formed the first time he rode the roller coaster at Coney Island.
“Are you going to grant permission for the transfer?” he asks, pushing the memories down. He knows it won’t do any good - they come to him in his dreams no matter how hard he tries to erase them. Only now does Oleg look at him.
“Are you?” he asks. And that’s when he sees them - the memories that haunt him - reflected back at him in his love’s eyes. His heart skips a beat, before pounding up against his ribcage.
“I don’t know yet, that’s why I called you,” he says honestly. Oleg chuckles, lips forming a ghost of the smile that he sees in his dreams.
“You wanted confirmation of your own suspicions,” Oleg says, his tone matter-of-fact instead of questioning. The man knows him well… too well.
“I didn’t think it was possible. Solo has always been an ardent womanizer, almost to his own detriment,” he says, forcing himself to look away from Oleg’s eyes before he can get lost in them.
“Sounds like someone I knew, back in the day,” Oleg replies with another chuckle, and he feels his cheeks heat at the words. Yes, back in his day he could sweep any woman he wanted off her feet, until the day he no longer wanted them.
“We have to deny the transfers, don’t we?” he asks, refusing to acknowledge Oleg’s words. They remind him of times that are too painful to remember. Oleg doesn’t answer right away, turning back to watch the rippling water.
“We shouldn’t,” he says after a few moments. “But we still can.”
“Why? We would be losing our best assets. Our countries would suffer greatly from such a loss.”
Oleg turns back to him, his expression heavy with words unsaid.
“If things had been different, back then… If we had had a real chance, would you have taken it?” he asks, more serious than he had ever seen him look. He thinks back on the late nights, on the feeling of this other man’s skin against his, on the way he hadn’t found a modicum of happiness since the day they said goodbye.
“Yes,” he says, forcing the tears that attempt to well up to crawl back into their ducts.
“Then that is why, Sanders,” Oleg says, and he notes the way the Russian’s hand twitches in his lap, like he is fighting not to reach out. He wants him to, so badly.
“We can give them the chance that we never had.”
He looks away before the other agent can see the way those words affect him, his hands becoming fists in his lap. He takes several deep breaths, eyes fluttering closed, and more memories flash behind his eyelids. Of hands grasped on dark street corners, of laughter and passion entwining in secret. Who is he to deny someone else the chance at happiness he never got? He nods without opening his eyes, and is startled when a warm hand envelopes his clenched one.
“для нас уже слишком поздно, любовь моя,” Oleg whispers, squeezing his hand, “но не для них.”
A traitorous tear breaks containment, racing down his cheek, and he stands abruptly.
“I’ll approve the transfer as soon as I’m back stateside,” he says, voice rough with unshed tears. He doesn’t wait for a response, turning on his heel and walking away, his heart breaking into smaller pieces with every step.
It may be too late for him, but if he can stop someone else from feeling this kind of pain, then he will. Nobody should have to live with the ache of a love without a happy ending.