The End Of An Era
The telephone jangled loudly, and Cara rubbed her eyes blearily and gazed at the luminous clock face. Five o'clock? Almost time to be getting up anyway. She rolled over and grabbed the phone.
"Hello…? Robert! Morning sweetheart. Is everything alright?"
She listened for a moment, and as her son talked on the other end, something vice-like clawed at her heart. Finally, her eyes damp, she nodded.
"I'm so sorry…thank you son, I appreciate you letting me know. I'll tell dad. Yes, thank you. When?...I see…how are Jean and April bearing up? Tell them we'll be there as soon as we can…yes. I'd better wake dad straight away and let him know what's happened. Thanks. I love you son. See you soon. 'bye!"
Cara Kuryakin snapped on the bedside light and blinked rapidly, trying to calm herself. She would be no help to her husband in this state. He would need her to be strong and…
She gulped, and unexpectedly burst into a flood of tears.
Beside her, Illya awoke, and sat up groaning. He was happy enough to reach old age considering he had spent his entire working life expecting to be killed on each assignment. And considering that he would be eighty-two on his next birthday, he was still pretty spry. Early mornings, however were a lot more challenging than they ever used to be. What had awaked him this time? With a rush he realized it was his beloved wife Cara, sitting up in bed weeping desperately, her beautiful silver hair glistening in the light from her lamp.
He enfolded her in his arms, resting his chin on her head. He hated seeing her upset.
"What is it my love? A nightmare?"
Cara choked back her sobs with difficulty and nodded.
"Yes, but not a nightmare we will ever wake up from. I'm so sorry darling, but that was Rob on the phone."
"Rob? At this time of the morning?"
Illya could only think that something serious must have happened for his son to call so early.
"Something has happened to Napoleon?"
His wife nodded, wiping more tears from her face.
"He…he passed away Illya…just under an hour ago. We've lost him."
Ten minutes later, in the lounge, cradling mugs of hot tea made Russian style, the way Illya still preferred, the two sat, red eyed and sniffing side by side. Cara rested her head on Illya's shoulder.
"I suppose it had to happen sooner or later, but...When did he tell you he was sick?"
"Only a few weeks ago."
Illya thought back over the years he had known his best friend.
The way Napoleon had welcomed the shy Russian agent into the New York office and made him feel welcome and at home.
The way Napoleon had trusted Illya with his life, right from the very first mission together.
The way Napoleon had always been there, despite Illya's propensity for getting himself into trouble; captured and tortured, sometimes badly hurt; but always Napoleon had come. Napoleon had saved his life and taken care of him. Illya had lost count of the times the American agent had taken him into his own home and nursed him back to health following some serious injury or sickness inflicted by THRUSH.
Then had come the dreaded day when Napoleon had reached forty and had been forced to retire from field work. Illya had found himself without his old partner, mentoring brash, young new recruits who regarded him as a veteran, even at the still tender age of thirty-eight.
Then had come marriage. When April Dancer retired from the field, she and Napoleon had married and been very happy. Their daughter Jean had grown up with the Kuryakin's son Robert, and now they too were married, with a five-year-old son of their own.
Napoleon Solo had become, it seemed, an extension of himself. When Illya had first come to America, he had never had a close friend before, and could never imagine the individual waiting for him that would change his life forever.
Now that Napoleon was gone, Illya felt a huge hole in his heart that would never be filled. Napoleon had been so strong until his sickness had come along and weakened him. How was April coping? He asked his wife the question and she wiped her eyes again.
"I asked after April and Jean. Rob said they're both coping fine for now, but it won't have hit them yet. When he called they were still at the hospital dealing with doctors and legal details. Its when they get home and find themselves surrounded by his clothes and photos…they'll realise that he…that he won't be…"
Illya, on the verge of breaking down himself, realized that what his wife needed most was to feel useful and needed. To have something to do.
"Come on love, let's get showered and dressed, and we'll go round there and see what we can do."
Cara nodded.
"You're right. Family and friends. Do you want the shower first?"
Illya got up and pulled her to her feet.
"No, my love. We'll shower together."
He swallowed something large and impassable, winked at his wife and pinched her rear. She blushed and batted his hand away, genuinely shocked.
"Illya, today of all days?"
Illya grabbed his wife and kissed her passionately on the lips.
"I was just reflecting on how much I owe to Napoleon, how much I will miss him, and the fact that I never actually told him or properly thanked him…"
"Oh darling, I'm sure he knew how you feel."
Illya nodded.
"I'm sure of it too, but the fact remains I never took the chance to say so when I could. I am not going to repeat that mistake. For the time remaining to me, wife-of-mine, I am going to seize every chance I can get to put everyone in no doubt at all exactly how much I do care for them…starting with you!"
Within two minutes, eighty-one-year old Illya and his seventy-nine-year old wife Cara were under the shower together. As he washed his wife's back, the hot water cascading down his face washed away his devastated tears. . .