HOW NAPOLEON SOLO FINALLY GOT MARRIED
Napoleon Solo looked in the mirror and saw a poster for mid-life crisis. That's what the pop psychologists were calling it now: that 40-ish malaise modern males were heir to.
He began to understand why field agents were routinely called in at their 40th birthdays. Highly talented and experienced individuals, their expertise could be utilized in training, interpretation of intelligence, translation, research—there were many aspects to espionage support.
It was not so much the physical changes—the slowing of reflexes, the lower pain tolerance, the increased recuperative time; wisdom born of experience could compensate for that. But the mental and emotional erosion, the adrenaline overdoses, took their toll.
Burn out. It was more than the cynicism that regularly accompanied missions. It was a mechanization that dulled an agent's edge. One's dedication to high ideals wore down inexorably over the years. Missions melted together in memory, and the realization that even successful assignments were merely temporary stopgaps for evil intent.
Solo had been recruited as a young man, and matured in the milieu of danger and glamour. There had hardly been time to contemplate the personal sacrifices. But lately the glamour had lost its glitter; the danger increased his sense of personal mortality. Nagging, nasty doubts about morality became more difficult to ignore.
Field work was a poor prospect for committed relationships. It was discouraged by policy and practice and Solo had no previous objection to squiring leggy, sophisticated, interchangeable women who expressed no domestic ambitions. But lately….
Even his delight in diversions was paling. The challenge, the chase, left him weary; he felt his charm automatic, mechanical; each conquest was routine and predictable.
There was only one place now where he felt content. Content. What a strange word, a foreign feeling to one so accustomed to an energized life. But recently, he had begun to value simply being comfortable.
Solo considered that it might be pleasant, even desirable, to return home each night to one familiar smile.
His car steered unconsciously to Cassandra's, where the slick façade of Agent Solo could be tucked away in a drawer and the real Leo coaxed out to play. In Cassie's presence, the world was calm and whole and everything made sense.
They had met in a most ordinary way, in an ordinary place, on an ordinary day, which made it quite an extraordinary experience for Solo. She was a rather ordinary woman with an ordinary job, but he found himself longing to share her company, seeking her out. With Cassie, he felt relaxed and refreshed and free; Cassie, whose gift was to make the commonplace such a serene and special place to dwell.
He knocked and walked straight into her delight. Cassie led him to the familiar wing chair where he undid his tie and let it cascade into a striped puddle at his feet. Solo stretched and yawned deeply and exhaled all the niggling worries of the past few days.
She stood behind the chair and her arms encircled his neck.. "Hi," she finally welcomed him quietly.
"Hi yourself."
"It's left-over casserole night. Fair warning…"
Solo's appetite suddenly sharpened, and he observed to himself that he would rather be here, in Cassie's quaintly cluttered home spooning up some mysterious noodle concoction, than any bright and blaring nightclub with vain, chattering, spangled companions.
"Hey, Solo…"
"Mm-hmmm..?"
"Let's get married."
He sought her eyes. There was a shining promise of sweetness and peace there, honor and humor and a glint of desire he had failed to recognize or appreciate before.
And without poetry or evasion or clever banter he replied "OK."
So how did Napoleon Solo finally get married?
He was finally asked.
finis