The pain in his head was excruciating. He finished typing the last of his project into the computer and hit "send". Calmly he rose from his chair and walked through the corridor to the Executive conference room. Illya and Mr. Waverly were seated at the round table as he entered the room. Traitors. Kuryakin looked up from the papers scattered on the table in front of him and smiled broadly. "Napoleon." His voice was uncharacteristically warm, and friendly. Alexander Waverly looked up from the monitor built into the conference table.
"Mr. Solo, delighted to have you back with us, please have a seat."
"Thank you, sir. I'm delighted to be back." Napoleon pulled the gun from his holster and shot Waverly through the heart.
"No," Illya jumped to his feet and moved to Waverly's side.
"No!" Napoleon screamed into the darkness. His heart was pounding and his body covered in an icy cold sweat. He fumbled on the table next to his bed and switched on the bedside reading lamp. He was in bed, his own bed. Dreaming. He'd been dreaming.
He stumbled into the living room and poured himself a tumblerful of Chivas Regal. Gradually he felt himself calming down. By the time he finished the scotch he couldn't remember why he had awakened. He turned off the lights and returned to bed.
"Napoleon?" Kuryakin opened his eyes and frantically scanned the darkness trying to determine where he was. There was a sweet fragrance of freesia comingled with jasmine, and the room was illuminated with shimmering sliver white moonlight. For a moment he thought he might still be dreaming.
"Go back to sleep," a gentle voice coaxed. Fingers caressed his forehead tenderly, and warm lips brushed a comforting kiss on his cheek. He laid his head back on her shoulder, and buried his face in the silky softness of her hair. They were in Ceala's living room. He remembered they had been sitting on the couch talking. Apparently, he'd fallen asleep.
"I'm sorry," he whispered groggily propping himself up on one elbow.
"It's all right," she whispered. "You just need to sleep."
He closed his eyes and laid his head back on her shoulder.
"The dead man, in New Orleans, the one you thought was me, what did you whisper into his ear?" he asked.
Her breathing was soft and rhythmic and when she did not respond he thought she had fallen back asleep. A moment later he felt the soft touch of her lips against his ear, and the warmth of her breathing as she whispered.
"I said, 'Even if we can't be together, I'll always love you'."
He drew her tighter into his embrace and drifted peacefully into a dreamless sleep.
Napoleon grabbed his raincoat when he heard the doorbell. It had been raining since dawn, and the sky was still a dismal grey.
"Ceala?" He was surprised to find her rather than his partner on the other side of the door. "Where's Illya?" he asked as his eyes scanned the hallway behind her.
"He's waiting downstairs in the car. We couldn't find any parking."
"I didn't know you were coming with us." He smiled as she helped him on with the raincoat.
"I'm not coming with you. I have a lunch date with Dennis and my car is in the U.N.C.L.E. parking garage."
Napoleon raised a suspicious eyebrow, and a mildly lecherous smile played across his lips.
"Please wipe that dreadful smirk off of your face. It's not at all attractive on you. Illya and I went out for dinner and ended up at my apartment. He fell asleep...Now stop. It was all very innocent." she protested.
"I think that's the problem with you two, too much innocence," he said then turned to lock the door.
Kuryakin flipped through the technical journal he'd brought along for the wait at the clinic. The pressure in academia to publish seemed to have spawned an endless flow of useless research, and fatuous, long-winded, poorly written articles. There was a time when he himself had aspired to climb the ranks of the international scientific community. He had studied at the Sorbonne then moved on to Cambridge. By the time he had received his PhD in Quantum Mechanics, his work had been published in any number of prestigious scientific publications. Offers had come from a dozen of the world's most elite foundations, corporations and academic organizations. He could take his pick. Yet somehow, he'd been plagued by vague doubts.
A visit from a man named Alexander Waverly had changed the course of his life.
"You could think of us as an international law enforcement organization." the older gentleman responded to his questioning gaze after reading the engraved calling card Waverly had given him. "I feel there is a place for you in our organization." The man's proposition was so ludicrous he had actually laughed. "I'm a scientist sir, not a spy. It might be you've confused me with someone else."
"I've no confusion whatsoever concerning who you are, Doctor Kuryakin." Waverly and been unflustered. "My number is on the card. I trust you'll call when you're ready." Kuryakin had shown the man to the door, and three days later he had dialed the number on the card. Waverly had been correct, there was indeed a place for him in the organization. It had become his home, his family, his life.
He heard the stirring as his partner started to awaken, and moved toward the bed. Napoleon seemed so small and vulnerable in the narrow hospital bed. His eyes masked with dark circles; his ruddy coloring now pallid. Though he would never have admitted it to a living soul, he too had been seduced by the Solo myth. Napoleon Solo was indestructible, undefeatable, immortal. But the man before him now seemed very mortal indeed.
Kuryakin had always assumed he would be the one to die first. He was forever getting himself in tight places; one day, he assumed, he wouldn't be able to get himself out. Napoleon was more like the proverbial cat with nine lives. It was the legendary Solo magic. He had personally seen the man charm his way past death more times than he could count. But somehow, this was different. The two of them could take on any enemy, as partners they were invincible. But this wasn't just any enemy and as much as he wanted to be part of the fight, he had to accept this was Napoleon's battle.
"I think you're enjoying this way too much," Napoleon grumbled as the nurse wheeled him to the side door of the clinic. He had valiantly pleaded his case to his nurse, Janine. But his pleas had fallen on deaf ears and hospital policy had won out.
Kuryakin eased his partner up from the chair, and thanked the nurse for her assistance. In the warm sunlight Napoleon's pallor was even more pronounced, and for all of his railing against the ride in the wheelchair, the short walk to Kuryakin's car had exhausted him. Was this a side effect from the treatment, he wondered, or was the cancer spreading? His attempts to get more information about the course of treatment Turner was implementing had yielded nothing. Turner's research was strictly classified and neither he, not the hospital staff would answer any questions.
Kuryakin started the car and headed across town to Napoleon's apartment. Solo was uncharacteristically pensive.
"I need to write a will," he finally said.
"I think that might be a bit premature," Illya answered warily.
"It's something I should have taken care of a long time ago. Don't you have a will?"
"Why would I need a will? What do I own? A cat and a bunch of old vinyl jazz recordings. The cat already lives at Ceala's."
"Well, I'd still like to have a will drawn up. I was thinking maybe Ceala's friend Dennis might do it for me."
Dennis. It had been some time since his first and only meeting with Ceala's friend Dennis. The occasion had been a holiday fundraiser for Ceala's school; Napoleon had goaded him into buying the ticket. Five thousand dollars! He'd seriously considered strangling his partner when he found out what the ticket was going to cost him. It had been barely a week since the Irish woman had walked into the middle of an U.N.C.L.E. operation. A sweet innocent kindergarten teacher who had been stood up by her boyfriend for the opera. Though he was hesitant to admit it even now, he'd been taken with her immediately.
Dennis Collins had been her date that evening. Illya had erroneously assumed Ceala and the dashing, successful lawyer were lovers. Kuryakin had already developed quite a healthy dislike for Dennis Collins before he'd even met the man. He realized now he had simply been jealous. As it turned out, his jealously was misplaced. None of it had been as it seemed. Ceala, it turned out, was far from an innocent civilian and she and Dennis were never a couple—Dennis was, in fact, gay.
"Could you call him and set up an appointment?"
I'd rather plunge sock darning needles in my eyes he thought.
"Certainly, if you'd like." he answered.