MY FURRY VALENTINE
It was the most romantic day of the year, and she was in the most romantic city in the world, and April Dancer was alone.
Valentine's Day, in Vienna, and April was suffering from her first long-term injury, and she was—to paraphrase her partner Mark Slate—prickly.
She was on the third week in the chunky, fiberglass cast from toe to knee. "Try accessorizing this!" she thrust it forward, nearly tripping poor Slate. Her patience wore off as the pain pills did.
Enforcement agents were, as a class, fiercely independent, impatient with their own physical limitations, and crabby when crossed. April Dancer was an enforcement agent.
Slate had fetched and carried for her the first few days, then they mutually agreed to part. He returned to New York, ostensibly to complete their mission's debriefing.
Despite Mark's security concerns, she was relieved to have the flat to herself. April only hoped a THRUSH assassin would break in; she would cheerfully dispatch him by biting out his spleen.
But once alone, April discovered how much energy and strength and strategy it required to accomplish the simplest task. The immobility sapped her, and more than the shock and the pain was the frustration of being off-duty. And the anxiety that such an injury could threaten her field career. How did Solo and Kuryakin cope, she wondered.
The crutches were like giant chop sticks (another skill she had yet to master) and dangerously wobbly. Scooting around in the wheel chair gave her more independence, and after a couple days she could parallel park, if she concentrated.
But there was the deadly tedium. She polished her gun. She eavesdropped on channels E through M. She finished the magazines Mark had left. She polished her gun. She rewound her tape 'Listen and Learn German.' She bit her nails. She polished her gun.
The doorbell startled her. "I'm coming—ah, wer ist es?" April called, heaving herself up from the sofa and hobbling across the room. The crutches were spiking and splitting in a momentum of their own. The door chimed again. "Warten Sie, for heaven's sake—einen augenblick!" Her basic German phrases were deserting her. "Je viens! Je suis une cripple…"
She was clearly surprised to greet Dr. Theodore Mason, UNCLE's chief psychiatrist. They stared nose to nose for some minutes.
"May I come in, Miss Dancer?"
"Yes, of course," April backed up and sprawled across the sofa in an awkward four-point landing. "So, in town for the Sigmund Freud concert?"
Mason was not deflected by her sarcasm. "Actually, I finished my work in Geneva and I'm heading back to New York. I heard you were recovering here—"
"I'm sorry," she apologized. "I've been so snappy. I'm hurt and helpless and this hair—" she pouffed to blow the stray strands out of her eyes. Then it occurred to her. "Did HQS send you? Did Mark complain?"
"This is not an international housecall, Miss Dancer. Relax. How are you?"
April narrowed her eyes. "Why do I feel like you're taking notes?"
"Call me Teddy. Why do you Section 2's get so intimidated around me?"
In her current mood, April felt entitled to be blunt. "Maybe because you ground more EA's than THRUSH."
Mason stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I don't believe that reputation can be statistically verified. But I do take my responsibilities seriously. Of course, you could break off my arm and whack me over the head with it—but I'm not afraid of ordinary social interaction with you."
"You're right," she extended her hand. "Call me April, please." Then she saw the bouquet. "Lavender roses," she breathed. "Y'know, when a girl doesn't notice flowers, she'd been cooped up too long. Thank you."
Mason rummaged around the kitchenette and found a crystal pitcher for the roses. He expertly prepared a silver tray of cheeses, grapes, biscuits, and poured her a glass of white wine.
"This is so lovely! Thank you Dr—Teddy," she granted him one of her genuine sunrise smiles. Her voice lost the whiney edge of the past week.
April and Mason had been coffee-cup-colleagues , nodding to each other in the hall, waving across the commissary, but never had an in-depth conversation.
Now she studied him across the sofa. Not classically handsome, nor dashing. He had a round face with thinning brown hair and wire glasses. There was wisdom born of pain in his eyes, and humor hinted by the crinkles around his mouth. He had the bushy brown beard that seemed to be cliché of psychiatrists.
"Is the beard a professional requirement?" she teased.
"Oh, yes," he affirmed. "And my female colleagues are really annoyed about it."
Mason was an engaging listener with a solid memory for detail. He lacked the quick, facile banter of sophisticates like Solo. His comments were measured, thoughtful.
"I, eh...notice you avoid romantic entanglements…"
April sighed. "I guess I was not prepared for how difficult it would be, to sacrifice authentic intimacy. We can't have normal social lives: all those secure areas we can't speak of, or lie about. Can't tell anything—can't trust anyone. It limits our relationships to other agents. So we settle for someone safe. We're so...inbred."
During the afternoon they discovered a mutual interest in the history of Tudor England, the music of Simon and Garfunkel, and the humble grilled cheese sandwich.
April's hair, which she had pinned up haphazardly to keep out of her face, was shaking loose as she laughed at Teddy's stories.
"Allow me." He stepped behind her and began to pull out the straggling pins, letting her auburn tresses dangle down her shoulders. Then he brushed her hair out in long, steady strokes. April closed her eyes. For several minutes, the only sound was her purring in pleasure. The tension and frustration and anxiety of the past week melted away. If only more men understood the tingling effect of a thorough hair brushing…
"Time to get you out of these four walls. Your carriage awaits." Mason leaned over and lifted her from the sofa, settling her in the wheelchair. April was surprised and pleased at his strength. It was nice, she thought, to sit back and be treated like a lady, instead of constantly competing for equality with male agents.
"Your personal tour of Vienna fountains by moonlight." Teddy wheeled her into the crisp night air. They strolled the Strasse Berger wrapped in a blue velvet sky studded with stars. "May I have this waltz?" Mason spun and rolled the chair gently in ¾ time, whistling a Strauss tune.
"You'll freeze your pucker," April warned. "I can see my breath out here."
Teddy checked his watch. "Two more hours til my plane leaves. Two more hours and the holiday is officially over. April Dancer, will you be my valentine?"
Her smile gleamed in the starlight. " Someone has to keep your lips warm."
His beard tickled.
finis