Illya Kuryakin stood and looked out the window at his nieces and nephews skating on the pond. At this time of year the water was frozen solid and they shrieked, yelled, and flailed their way across the ice. It didn't matter that it was bitterly cold or that the wind was blowing at near gale force levels. They were simply having fun. He sighed, louder than he meant to.
"You should join them, Illya Nichovetch."
He glanced over his shoulder at his sister-in-law and smiled. "Perhaps later I will. I think for now it's a pursuit best left to the young. I'm not as fond of the cold as I used to be." She stared at him, frowning, and he realized his faux pas. After all his time in England, and then America, he thought and spoke in English first. "Forgive me," he apologized, in Russian this time. "I forgot where I am. Perhaps I will later."
"At least you show more restraint than your crazy brother." Irina cuddled her new-born daughter, kissing her cheek before offering her to Illya. Illya grinned and accepted the bundle.
The baby started to fuss and Illya shushed it softly. "Shhh, none of that now. You're a Kuryakin." He stroked her cheek with a finger nearly as broad and long as her face. "You are also very beautiful, just like your mother," he said as the child quieted and stared back at him with wide dark eyes. He winked at his sister-in-law.
"Flirting with my daughter already? I should take you out back and beat you, little brother," Vyetka who like his younger brother, Mykyta towered over their older sibling, half laughed as he came through the front door of their parents' dacha and shook the snow from his dark curly hair. "I leave you alone for a minute and you put the moves on my women."
"And you remember how well that ended for you last time you tried that," Illya said, his eyes leaving the baby for just a moment to issue a silent challenge. Instinctively Illya swayed slightly as he held the baby and chucked under her chin until she giggled. His mind flashed on an earlier incident when his two brothers had done just that. Broadsided him and given him a severe beating, just because they had misinterpreted something heir father said. He loved his brother, but they were not rocket scientists. Once they caught him by surprise, but never again. He firmly reestablished his alpha position within family once he'd healed. But it had taught him a valuable lesson and Illya never let his guard down, not even among his own family, not any more.
"When are you going to get married again, Illyusha?" Vyetka asked, tugging off his coat and hanging it up on a rack. "You're too good with children to not have a dozen of your own."
"Soon because it worked out so well for me the first time." Illya handed the child to her father and returned to his vigil by the window.
"Anzhela was an idiot and she paid a very dear price," Vyetka proclaimed, pausing to kiss his daughter before returning her to her mother. Vyetka was the peacemaker in the family – he wanted everyone happy and content and Illya knew it made his brother unhappy to see him adrift like this. No lover, no wife, not even a proper girlfriend, this situation represented seven kinds of torment for Vyetka. He couldn't understand Illya's position. "She didn't know what she had."
"Worse, she knew exactly what she had," Illya muttered. "That was the problem. What she had wasn't what she wanted." He traced a line in the condensation. Only training kept him from reacting as a pair of arms wrapped around him and his brother rested his chin on Illya's shoulder, tickling Illya's face with his long beard. Illya smiled and leaned back against Vyetka. It did feel good to be back with family again, people not afraid to touch one another out of love or need… not like with Americans. Well, not like most Americans. Napoleon was the exception to that rule.
Illya felt strangely restless. He wanted to be here, with all the familiar sounds and sights of his family, and yet part of him ached to be somewhere else, back among the noise and confusion of New York. The first couple of days had been a wild mixture of seeing friends and family and of preparing for the New Year's celebrations. Now he was settling back in to the established routine of family life and it was starting to wear.
"Like I said, an idiot." Vyetka kissed the side of Illya's head and hugged him tightly before releasing him. "Come help me chop wood for tonight. Mykyta is lazy and always leaves it too large to easily put into the fireplace. It's too much for Papa to handle, but he doesn't want to complain."
"That's new. Papa used to excel at complaining." Illya remembered seeing his father upon his arrival and how shocked he was at the change in the man. When Illya was growing up, his father was a force to be reckoned with. Tall and broad shouldered, Nicolai Kuryakin was not a man you said no to and yet Illya also remembered him also as a compassionate and loving father, always ready with a comforting word and a steady hand. Yet, this time, when Illya hugged and kissed his father, he was shocked by the man's fragility, bent with years of back breaking work, and his hands shaking with the onset of palsy. It was so hard to see the changes in his parents, especially when he felt at the prime of his life.
Illya nodded to the kitchen door. "I'll get my things and join you."
"Through the kitchen, huh? Some things never change. Do you ever stop eating, Illyusha?"
"Yes, I make it a habit never to eat while I'm asleep." He grinned at Vyetka and walked into the kitchen.
****
It was filled nearly to overflowing by his mother, sisters, aunts and cousins, all working to prepare for the huge feast that was shortly to come. While Americans celebrated one night of New Year's, Russians made a long celebration out of it, often running a week or more. There was always lots of food, drink, and fireworks. It was a time for family and for reconnecting with friends. Now nearly every flat surface in the kitchen was covered with some treat for tonight's celebration and Illya allowed himself to show more than the usual interest in the preparations.
"Here to eat, Illya Nichovetch?" His sister, Taisia, teased as she chewed on a piece of pickled carrot. The closest to him in age, she too always seemed to be fighting her metabolism. Of course, a woman being thin didn't carry the same stigma as it did for a man and with her being a good five inches taller than Illya, it gave her long graceful lines. She danced with a professional ballet company, or at least she did until she got too pregnant. Now she looked as if was a stick that had swallowed a watermelon whole.
Illya remembered the less-than-flattering nicknames he'd been saddled with as a child, being both short for his age and rail thin. Even now, his opponents looked at him and took him only at his measure, never recognizing the determination and resourcefulness in his eyes. It was his greatest weapon in a fight and he'd come to accept his body as he'd come to accept everything else in his life, a hurdle to be overcome and made into a positive. He privately hoped her child would be tall, like Taisia and her husband.
"I'm just getting my jacket and gloves." He paused to give his mother's cheek a kiss. She brought a hand up to caress his face before popping a piece of kozinaki, a sweet walnut candy, into his mouth. Of all the children, he and his youngest sister, Larysa, were the closest to her in looks. While the rest took after their father, broad chested, tall, and dark, they were fair skinned, blue-eyed blonds. Growing up, they were frequently thought to be twins, until Larysa hit about thirteen and started to grow. Within a year, she had four inches on her brother and Illya knew he was destined to be the short one in the family.
Larysa still was his, albeit taller, mirror image. She even wore her hair in a similar manner to his, completely by accident. While his genetic relationship to his other brothers and sisters could be questioned, there was no doubt that he and Larysa were related.
She was destined to be the creative one in the family. Give her a bit of paper and some glue and she could create anything. Illya frequently drew upon her imagination when his more analytic mind stumbled over a situation in school. She helped him to see problems from a different angle, a lesson that had saved him many times over with UNCLE.
And appropriately enough, Larysa was the one who opened the dacha's door the night of his arrival and squealed her delight into his ear. And she was the one who led him silently through the large house, a finger on his lips, to their mother. Illya smiled as he remembered his mother's face as he stole up behind her and whispered, "Mama?" into her ear. Her face and the joy there would be one of those memories he would call upon the next time an affair turned bad, the next time he was being tortured, or worse
Svitlana, the middle sister, caught his elbow and held out a spoon of something. Balyk sorpa, a lamb dish, he realized after he tasted it.
"You made this?" He was amazed. His sister had long resisted learning to cook, declaring it too feminine for her tastes. She was never going to marry, but rather roam free and without a care like her older brother.
"Yes, it is okay, Illya Nichovetch?"
"Huh, when did you learn to cook?"
"Ruslan likes to eat." She pulled back, hands on her hips. She was the sibling with the temper, hot, quick to go up, just as fast to calm down. Ruslan was her brand new fiancé and Illya had yet to meet him. That didn't prevent him from giving his sister a bad time over him
"Perhaps he's not useless after all." Illya paused to reflect. "I may have to let him live."
"Illya Nichovetch, you will not touch him or I'll… I'll..."
"You'll what, dushinka?" Illya gathered her into his arms, holding her captive easily. Like his enemies, his family forgot just how formidable he was physically. "Does he make you happy?" he whispered into her ear so that only she could hear and she stopped struggling. "Does he make your heart tremble when you make love?"
"Yes," she whispered back, suddenly shy.
"Then he is a good man. Keep him." Illya kissed her temple and released her. "I'd better go before Mykyta drives Vyetka to drinking… more." She wandered away as if in a trance and Illya sighed. What was wrong with him? He was home with his family. They were, for the moment, happy and relatively healthy and yet his mind kept wandering, going back to steel gray corridors and to one man in particular. He couldn't believe how much he missed his always-grinning, constantly-teasing partner.
"A ruble for your thoughts, my little one." His mother broke into his reverie, stroking his cheek. She was the only one permitted to call him that and not feel his wrath. "You look a million miles away. You've been here for just a short time and already you look to the horizon with such longing. Your heart's somewhere else, I think, my wandering son."
"I'm fine, Mama." He smiled and kissed her gently, gathered up his coat, gloves, and a handful of almond kulich and walked out the back door to the woodshed. He'd made that trip more than once with his father holding onto the scruff of his neck with one hand and a broad belt with the other. Illya had been a stubborn and obstinate child and his father eventually learned that it took careful manipulation, not punishment to bring his son under control. He could still remember telling his father that he could take it and to hit him again. Stupid child, I was lucky he didn't kill me. Illya thought, although he never remembered being beaten very badly. It was more the humiliation than the pain that stayed with him afterwards.
****
As expected, Mykyta was doing all the talking and Vyetka all the work. Mykyta was the clown of the family, the entertainer. While they had all inherited their mother's musical ability, Mykyta had somehow discovered comedic timing as well as a gift of gab. The young man simply never stopped talking.
"Enough!" Vyetka groaned. "I beg you by all that our forefathers held holy, be quiet!" He spotted his oldest brother and wiped his brow with an exaggerated motion. "Finally, the voice of reason; Illyusha, make him shut up."
Illya hefted the axe he'd picked up, taking its measure and then he tossed it, burying it in a beam close, but not too close, to Mykyta's head. "Your axe, Misha; you left it over here."
For a moment, Illya saw the flash of fear in both of his brothers' eyes. Like Napoleon's, his family knew only as much as they needed to about his life and work with UNCLE. The unknown made him both a figure of intrigue and a presence to fear. "Shit, Illya, you could have killed me!" Mykyta struggled to pull the axe from the beam.
"If I'd wanted you dead, Mykyta, you would be. I merely want you to chop wood." Illya picked up a wood splitter and turned his attention to a piece of wood, halving it neatly with one stroke. "And to do it silently."
Mykyta stopped his struggle with the axe and took two steps back before turning and nearly running from the shed.
"Good move, Illyusha, now we have to do all the work ourselves." Vyetka , snickering, returned to his task.
"If nothing else, at least now we know it will be done right and quietly." And Illya turned his attention fully to his task.
****
"Mama, he's crazy!" Mykyta announced the moment he entered the kitchen. All the women looked at him in surprise.
"Who, dear?"
"Who do you think? Illya Nichovetch! He attacked me with an axe."
"I suspect if he'd done that, little brother, you'd be either dead or at least missing a limb." Svitlana scraped the bottom of her pot into a pile of scraps for the pigs. "He doesn't usually miss."
"You need to do something!" Mykyta scowled at his sister and made a rude gesture at her before escaping from the room. "He's dangerous! He's too dangerous to be allowed to roam free."
Yuliya watched after her youngest for a long time and knew he was right. Within the first hours of Illya's return, she'd seen the restlessness in her firstborn's eyes. She'd watched him sleep for a long time that first morning, shaking her head at the scars that marred his body, frowning as he thrashed at the sheets. She knew a little of Illya's work, knew that he was in some sort of enforcement work. She'd had to guess at other aspects of it and all of it scared her more than she let on. She'd tried to talk of her concerns with Nicolai, but he brushed her fears aside.
"He's a grown man, Yuli, and he's made his decision. He needs to live with it as do we all," her husband had said and gone back to his documents. These days, he preferred his books and papers to everything else.
Still, she worried about Illya, just as she always had. She'd practically been a child herself when she gave birth to him. And from birth, the doctors warned her, "He's too small, he'll never survive." But he did. Then the government swept him away the moment they got an inkling of the intelligence lurking behind those blue eyes and she was sure he was lost to her. But he wasn't. Then his travels abroad, first to France, then England, and now to a new life in America, places she, an average citizen, couldn't follow, and she was sure he'd forget her and his family. But he didn't. For all that he went through, Illya remained a faithful and dutiful son and she decided it was time to let him know she remembered and appreciated his efforts.
Well, if Nicolai wouldn't help her, she knew one man who would. A man she'd only met once but someone she'd been immediately taken with, much as her son apparently was.
She motioned to her sister. "Anya, stir this for me please. I need to make a telephone call."
Going to their antiquated phone, she rummaged through a drawer, until finally, on the verge of despair, she found a crumpled piece of paper and lifted the receiver.
When the voice answered, she repeated the message on the paper, speaking the alien phrases slowly and carefully, never really certain if she made herself understood.
A moment later a half-familiar voice answered. "Solo here."
"Mr. Solo, this is Yuliya… Illya's mother," she added for clarification.
"Of course, is everything okay? Is Illya all right?" She smiled at his hideous accent, but at least his Russian was understandable, far better than her English.
"To be honest, he could be better and I think you can help."
****
Illya had to hand it to his family. No one else knew how to party like they did and night after night, they turned the dacha into a haven of food, drink and merriment. He never understood why Americans went out to sterile or bleak restaurants to celebrate when it meant so much more to do it at home. Plus it meant a much easier climb into bed when all the merry making was over and done with.
Mykyta was singing some old Ukrainian drinking song and both his father and Vyetka had joined in. The three of them made enough noise that they could be heard well into the next country. He'd made his peace with Mykyta earlier in the evening and had even joined in on several of the songs until he'd had his fill. He'd eaten, drunk, danced, laughed, and held onto the people who meant so much to him and still he felt torn in half. Nearly all the people who meant something to him were here and Illya found himself sighing again, taking up his old spot by the window, staring out as the snow and wind as it rattled the glass, emphasizing its freedom, its need tomove.
"So is this a private pity party or can I join in, partner?'
Illya spun at the sound of Napoleon's voice and stared at the grinning man. "Napoleon!? What are you doing here?"
"I was in the neighborhood and heard the singing. To be honest, deaf people in Canada can hear the singing. Your father's got a serious set of lungs on him." Napoleon unbuttoned his greatcoat and chuckled. "You look like a fish, partner of mine."
Illya closed his mouth, only to open it again. "But how?"
"It's amazing what wonders the Star of Lenin will work." Napoleon referred to the medal that he'd been presented by the Soviet government for helping to save their grain crop.
"There's no trouble back home then?"
"Well, when Nancy finds out I stood her up to be here, there will be, but what the hell? You only live once." Napoleon glanced around the room and slapped his hands together. "So are you related to every woman in this room?"
Illya's gaze followed the same path and nodded, smiling. "Yes and if you touch one of my sisters, I will be duty bound to kill you. How's your foot?"
Napoleon shrugged. "It could be better, but, then and again, if it was, neither of us would be here and I, for one, think here is a mighty fine place to be. So, introduce me around, Mr. K." Napoleon draped an arm around his friend's shoulders. Illya's eyes suddenly caught his mother's and she smiled knowingly at him.
Thank you, he mouthed and she nodded wisely. A mother has a way of knowing these things.