Title: "Here's to You, Lord Tennyson"
Summary: Napoleon thinks that perhaps UNCLE's inspirational tagline might be overdue for a changeup. For reference to this poem by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, see season 4, ep 14, "The Deep Six Affair".
Warning: Pure silliness. Sense and reason have no place here.
Napoleon fidgeted restlessly in his seat as he waited for Mr. Waverly to arrive. Remnants of a recent THRUSH concoction in his system had him a bit jumpier than usual, to Illya's amusement and Napoleon's consternation. He staunchly avoided his partner's eyes as he shifted yet again in an attempt to get the damn chair to stop being so uncomfortable. Somewhere to his right there was a snicker. Napoleon ignored it and defiantly raised his chin.
Finally, Waverly entered the office and crossed round the table to his usual place.
"Ah, Mr. Solo, I'm glad to see you discharged from Medical," he opened. "No adverse effects from that unusual drug, I take it?" It was a purely rhetorical question, but nevertheless Napoleon puffed up proudly and opened his mouth to answer.
"None to speak of, sir," Illya's voice cut in before Napoleon could respond, and he turned to glare at his partner. Illya returned his look with a flash of a smirk and turned his attention back to Mr. Waverly.
"Good, good," Waverly said distractedly, opening a file on the table in front of him. "Well, gentleman, unsurprisingly THRUSH is at it again. We've received reports from Intelligence with details of THRUSH activity in Northern Africa that is dangerously close to…"
Waverly's voice seemed to drone on in Napoleon's ears and he leaned back in his chair, still engaged in his battle to find a comfortable position. What was wrong with this chair?
"Mr. Solo, I do hope we're not boring you," Waverly's voice sharpened slightly, and Napoleon immediately snapped out of his distracted haze and brought his mind back to the task at hand. Mission. Right.
"Apologies, sir," he said with professional contrition. He leaned forward in his chair, resting his arms on the table, ready to talk turkey, as the saying went. Waverly seemed satisfied and nodded in response, closing the file and surveying his agents.
"This contains information, gentlemen," he said, gesturing to the file. "On noted THRUSH operatives in the area." He slid the folder toward them. "You'll have to be careful. Unfortunately, we don't have a detailed list of their possible contacts, so anyone seen interacting with them must immediately be suspect." He paused and took a puff from his pipe. "For that matter, virtually anyone in the area must be suspect, until you can manage to narrow your options to more likely candidates.
"The first phase of the mission will be strictly observation with absolutely no engagement of THRUSH. You will report in regularly with developments as they occur, and once we have enough information to move forward, I will give the signal to begin the second phase. Any questions?"
Napoleon and Illya shared a quick look and Illya asked carefully, "Sir, if I may ask, what is the 'second phase' going to be?" The look Waverly gave Illya was barely tolerant.
"Well that depends entirely on what information you uncover, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly replied. He waved a hand at the file and Illya released a resigned breath.
"Ours is not to reason why," he muttered to Napoleon as he reached out to take the folder. Napoleon shook his head in wry agreement, leaning over to peruse the file with Illya when a sudden thought occurred to him. Brow furrowing, he turned back to Mr. Waverly.
"You know, sir," he began, open curiosity coloring his tone. "Funny you should say that, Illya, but I've been meaning to ask you about that, sir."
Illya paused, quirking an eyebrow at his partner, and Waverly glanced up from his pipe.
"About what, Mr. Solo?" he asked, the tone of his voice suggesting that this had better be of some value. Napoleon lifted his head and went on, brow creased thoughtfully.
"Well, it's just… I was wondering, sir, if that particular poetic reference might not be the best one for Section Two's tagline?"
Utter silence greeted his suggestion, and Napoleon was apparently oblivious to the complete and utter disbelief that now danced about the room like it damn well owned the place. To his right, Illya had his lips pressed tightly together, and Napoleon wondered what on earth was upsetting his friend so much. He was the one who'd made the quote, after all. Silly Russian.
Well, Waverly didn't yet seem to have his response figured out, so Napoleon decided he would continue on, to save him the trouble.
"I mean, consider it, sir," he explained, leaning forward earnestly, gesturing as though giving a sales pitch. "All due respect to Lord Tennyson, sir, but that poem is about the Charge of the Light Brigade." He raised his eyebrows expectantly, looking between his boss and his partner, expecting… well, he didn't really know, but certainly they would give him something.
Nothing but silence. Napoleon sighed in exasperation.
"The Charge of the Light Brigade?" he repeated, a little surprised they wouldn't know this. "The disastrous charge of 1854 during the Battle of Balaclava that resulted in high casualties for the Brits and no decisive military gains?" He paused, sure that his explanation would jog Waverly and Illya's memories.
Apparently having recovered from his bout of shocked silence, Waverly coughed once around his pipe and leaned forward to rest his arms against the table.
"Mr. Solo," he replied sternly. "I fail to see how this is relevant to the situation at hand. As to your point, the reference is merely supposed to inspire unquestioning loyalty—"
"But implies certain death as a result of this unquestioning loyalty," Napoleon cut in eagerly. "And not only that, but also complete failure. That's not what UNCLE is trying to achieve, sir. My only point is that there are probably better poems out there to be quoting. More inspirational things than a suicide charge, and with better implied rates of success?" He turned to Illya then, hoping for some moral support, but his partner held his silence, practically shaking in his seat. Napoleon felt a stab of compassion as a sudden thought occurred to him. He turned back to Waverly and leaned forward, trying to put this as delicately as possible.
"And also, sir, I feel it an inappropriate reference given what we're trying to do with regards to, ah, certain political matters—"
"What political matters would these be, Mr. Solo?" Waverly snapped impatiently, puffing liberally on his pipe. Napoleon failed to sense the tension.
"Well, sir, I just mean…" He paused, his eyes flashing to his partner, still shaking in apparent discomfort, and Napoleon hated to mention this in front of him. "The Charge of the Light Brigade was a British charge against, ah… well…." He paused again, shooting Illya an apologetic glance as he continued in a low and solemn voice. "Against the Russians, sir." Illya made a choked noise in the back of his throat and Napoleon winced. How long must Illya have been holding this in, never able to say anything about it?
"Your point, Mr. Solo?" Waverly interjected, lips tightly clenched around his pipe. Napoleon scratched awkwardly at his neck.
"I just don't think that this is a good way to inspire our agents, sir, when it sends the message – however indirect – that Russians are the enemy," he explained seriously. "It just doesn't send a message of peace and goodwill, sir." Another cut off sound from Illya, and Napoleon almost reached out to place a consoling hand on his shoulder. Poor repressed Russian. "And if we want to promote a promising relationship between—"
"Mr. Solo, that is quite enough!"
Even caught up in his excited historical and politically savvy rambling, Napoleon still recognized that particular tone of Waverly's as absolutely inarguable. He quickly shut his mouth.
"While I acknowledge the depth of your expertise regarding this particular work of literature and the context surrounding it, this is absolutely ridiculous, and I'll thank you to cease and desist this nonsensical rambling so that we may continue discussing this mission," Waverly harrumphed, his hard gaze firmly demanding acquiescence, his tone and expression unyielding and leaving absolutely no room for disobedience.
"Yes, sir," Napoleon responded immediately.
"Thank you, Mr. Solo." An uncomfortable pause followed Waverly's words, and Napoleon stole a glance at Illya. Still shaking. And now leaning his forehead against his hand, strategically shielding his eyes. Most likely still upset because of that unresolved issue resulting from that whole Crimean War reference thing.
Forgetting himself, Napoleon reached out and placed a comradely hand on Illya's shoulder.
"But sir, I just think—"
Several things happened at once. To his right, Napoleon heard a thump as Illya's head fell to the table, cradled by his arms, his body shaking harder with what Napoleon suddenly realized was laughter. Which was somewhat confusing, given the nature of the topic at hand. In front of him, Waverly stood furiously to his feet and bellowed, "Mr. Kuryakin!" Startled, Napoleon turned abruptly toward Waverly. What did his partner have to do with any of this? Unless Waverly suddenly realized that Illya was Russian and was therefore the enemy, according to Lord Tennyson?
"I believe you said there were no adverse effects of that THRUSH drug!" Waverly accused, brandishing his pipe at Illya. "I would most certainly categorize 'acting like a dimwitted child' as an adverse effect!"
"Hey!" Napoleon protested, somehow feeling that Waverly was talking about him, and properly affronted by that notion. Both Waverly and Illya ignored him, and Illya made an obvious attempt to get his laughter under control.
"Apologies, sir," Illya spoke, his tone one of forced control as he stifled his grin with an admirable effort. "I was assured by the doctors who examined Mr. Solo that nothing life-threatening would result of the drug. And there was no way to flush it out of his system than by waiting for his body to break it down naturally. After the mandatory period of bed rest, the doctors deemed him fit for duty."
"They deemed so in undue and careless haste, obviously," Waverly grumped.
"Clearly," Illya responded, shooting a lopsided smirk at Napoleon. Napoleon glared at him, prompting a cruel chuckle.
Well, fine then, let the jackass stand up for himself against somewhat dated poetic references from now on. Napoleon certainly wasn't going to do it if he was just going to get mocked for it.
"Mr. Kuryakin." Napoleon and Illya turned to Waverly. "Since Mr. Solo is clearly not at peak capacity, this mission falls to you. A temporary partner will be assigned to you, and we shall proceed with the mission on schedule. In the meanwhile, Mr. Solo will remain in Medical under evaluation until such time as he can be with certainty cleared for duty. I trust I've made myself understood, gentlemen." The proper response to that statement was a firm nod and a 'yes, sir.' Both Illya and Napoleon responded thusly.
"Excellent. Mr. Kuryakin, escort Mr. Solo to Medical, and wait for my word on the mission."
"Yes, sir." Illya stood to his feet and quickly pulled Napoleon out of his chair, ignoring Napoleon's spluttered protest. As the door hissed shut behind them, Napoleon swore he heard a rumbling chuckle from Waverly, and wondered bemusedly just what on earth was so funny.
One week, one mission, and one trip to Medical later:
"I don't believe you."
"It's all completely true, Napoleon."
"...I did what?"
"You gave perhaps the most innovative demonstration of insubordination that I have ever seen, waxed very analytical polemic against Lord Tennyson's "The Charge of the Light Brigade", and stoutly defended the honor of Mother Russia. For that last, I thank you most sincerely on behalf of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics."
"Better not say that too loud. ...I still don't believe you."
"Oh, Napoleon. Would I lie about something like this?"
"..."
"Touche. Nevertheless, this time I speak nothing but the truth. There's no need to worry, though, Napoleon. It may have been embarrassing, inappropriate, and completely out-of-character for you, but it did bring some joy and laughter to an otherwise dreary day."
"Ugh, get out you rotten Russian, and take your joy and laughter with you, I don't need to take this from you. And I certainly don't need a ride back to my apartment if you're going to be insufferable the entire way there."
"Oh, but Napoleon, however will you manage on your own after such a... strenuous week of recovery?"
"I'm sure I'll manage."
"Hm, of course. And this is the thanks I get after deliberating with Mr. Waverly on your behalf regarding the issue which, last week, had you so very riled."
"...Dare I even ask what you're talking about?"
"I spoke with Mr. Waverly, Napoleon, about the offending poem, and we came to a conclusion which I think will please you extensively."
"..."
"As of your official return to duty full-time, Section Two's new tagline will be... ahem... 'Go Team.'"
"...Nurse!"
Thinnest. Premise. Ever. When you want the boys to do something stupid, just make up a THRUSH drug and go nuts!
Well, I warned everyone. Pure and utter silliness. Because snarky Illya is delicious and doped up Napoleon is precious. I hope I did alright with their OOC characterization (Napoleon on drugs is such a difficult and nuanced character to pin down, I think, and no I'm not being facetious at all, why ever would you think that?).
On a different note, I swear, I was THIS CLOSE to having Illya misquote Lina Lamont from "Singin' in the Rain"... "You brought a little joy into our hum-drum lives..." I mean, they are both blond so it would have worked, right?
Regardless, I do hope y'all enjoyed this, and that all my immature attempts at humor ain't been in vain for nothin'!
Cheers!