"So, when are you Rasputin going to tie the knot?" Dennis signaled the waiter to bring another bourbon.
"I don't recall turning onto this road" she responded raising a cautious eyebrow.
"Why not? It seems clear you both care for one another."
"It's a bit more complex than that."
"But he spent the night at your apartment."
"Now don't you start with me too. He and I are friends. That's what works for us. The other... it confuses things."
"Don't tell me you've never considered it?"
"There are dangers in confusing fantasy with reality," she replied as she toyed with her salad.
"What is the reality?"
"The reality is the two of us are polar opposites, in our thoughts, and our beliefs and in the way we live our lives. I'm a kindergarten teacher. And for all of the fancy acronyms and corporate offices, when you get right down to it, the man in a spy. I mean for heaven's sake- he runs around the world chasing people and blowing things up, and doing God only knows what else that I don't even want to think about. When he leaves, I never know when I'm going to see him again. Or even if I'm going to see him again. Sometimes I think we have nothing in common at all."
"But you're in love with him."
"And love conquers all? That only works in the movies, Dennis. Illya and I have consigned some rather onerous burdens upon love. It's my hope we might salvage a bit of the affection between us, and move on with our lives. It's a hard thing he's facing now. Napoleon is the only real friend he's ever had."
"I understand what it is to lose a friend," Collins nodded sadly.
Ceala reached across the table and took his hand.
"I think we'd better get going. Are you sure you're up to this Dennis?"
"No, but I want to do it anyway."
Ceala had agreed to go to David's townhouse to sort through his personal papers. It was a grim task, and one best undertaken with a friend.
"We could wait a few days."
"That won't make it any easier, Ceala. Besides, there's a file there we need for a case coming to court next week. Sandy will never let me hear the end of it if I don't fax it to her this afternoon."
He raised his hand and signaled their waiter to bring the check.
Napoleon finished typing the last of his project into the computer in his office, then hit "send". Calmly he rose from his chair and walked through the corridor to the Executive conference room. He was taken with a sense of deja vu, that somehow, he'd lived this moment before, but of course that was impossible.
Illya and Mr. Waverly were seated at the round table as he entered the room. Little did the traitors know he was on to them. 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—but that didn't mitigate the cold malice in his eyes. 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."
Napoleon was filled with a sense of foreboding as he entered the spacious office, and claimed his chair between Waverly and Kuryakin.
"Thank you, sir. I'm delighted to be back." Napoleon pulled the gun from his holster and shot Waverly through the heart. Illya's eyes filled with disbelief at the horror before him, then turned his gaze to Napoleon.
"Why?" He had barely formed the word when Napoleon turned the gun on his partner sending two rounds into the Russian's head. The startled blue eyes were still fixed on him as he set the pistol on the table.
Napoleon's body convulsed in horror and he awakened. He reached across the arm to the couch to retrieve his watch from the end table. It was almost five o'clock. The dream had been so vivid that even now, the unspoken question in the Illya's eyes still haunted him. Gingerly he eased himself from the couch. He was dreadfully tired, and his muscles and joints ached. However, the pain in his head was gone, perhaps the treatments were working. He indulged himself with a bit of hope. Ambling into the kitchen he perused the food Ceala left for him, and decided on a chicken sandwich. He seemed to have no appetite since coming home and he wondered if the fact he was not eating was the cause of his constant fatigue.
The blue numbers on the microwave's digital clock caught his eye. It was eight fifteen. It had been three o'clock when his Illya brought him home from the clinic.
"Would you like for me to stay for a while?" He remembered Illya asking him.
"No, thanks. I think I'm just going to lie down on the couch and nap. Whatever they're giving me really seems to tire me out."
Had he been sleeping since three? He couldn't remember. He remembered the soft click of the latch as Kuryakin locked the door behind him. The next thing he remembered was being in the kitchen. He had a vague sense he'd been upset about something when he came out here, though he wasn't certain why. Perhaps the treatments were affecting his memory?
Fr. Michael Cooney finished writing another batch of thank you notes for the memorial checks from David Harnett's funeral. It was almost eight-thirty. He stared out of the window towards the school building and noticed the lights were still on in Ceala's classroom. It had been around four when he'd first noticed the lights, and he wondered what she was doing there. Perhaps she would like to join him for a pint at one of the neighborhood pubs.
St Patrick's Day was approaching, and a great number of Irish musicians were playing in the area bars. No doubt a few of his parishioners would be scandalized to learn their parish priest and kindergarten teacher had been rock stars barely more than a decade ago. He slipped a jacket on and headed over to the school.
Joyful flutes echoed Mozart through the long hall leading to Ceala's classroom.
"I thought you might like to take a break and track down a few jars of Guinness?" Michael poked his head in the door and was met by startled blue eyes.
"Mr. Kuryakin. I'm terribly sorry. I thought you were Ceala."
"Yes," he smiled warmly. "People frequently confuse us, it's the accent I think."
"Ceala didn't mention you would be here."
"She doesn't know I'm here. I didn't really know I was coming either."
"If Ceala didn't give you her key, then how did you get in?"
"Trade secret," he responded grinning shamelessly. "Why don't you grab a brush and help me finish this last wall, then we can go out and hunt down those beers you mentioned. I couldn't find the ladder so I had to skip the trim at the top."
"Donal, our maintenance man took the ladder to the shop to repair the broken rung. He felt terrible the ladder breaking caused your friend's injury."
"I didn't realize the ladder was broken?" Strange, Illya was certain Ceala told him Napoleon's fall had been a result of the tumor. It hardly made a difference now.