A/N: Oh, look, a plot!
Act II: Let me help you out
Sixteen years ago
Kansas
'Away from light steals home my heavy son and private in his chamber pens himself…'
Napoleon's eyes remained glued to the pages for the entire car ride.
'…Shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight and makes himself an artificial night…'
He didn't look up as the car stopped and the back door of the vehicle was opened.
'Black and portentous must this humour prove unless good counsel may the cause remove.'
His gaze finally wrenched itself from the words as his feet automatically began ascending the porch steps. Home again.
No. Never again.
Napoleon shook his head as Dad unlocked the door.
Stared as Mom and Dad went inside.
Closed his eyes as Mom called for him to join them.
"No," he said quietly.
"Napoleon?" Her voice was nearer, her footsteps approaching. "Nappy, come inside, dear."
Opened his eyes and shook his head violently.
"Sweetie—"
"I'm not going in," he said firmly.
Dad joined Mom by the door.
"I'm not going in there."
"I know it's hard, kiddo," Dad said, coming over to put an arm around his shoulder, "but this is home. It'll be okay."
"No!" Napoleon yelled as Dad started urging him inside. He slipped out from his father's grip and jumped back down the stairs, hugging the book tightly enough to shear the pages, almost breaking the spine. "It's not home! We can't be home!"
Present day
U.N.C.L.E.-New York
"This, Mr. Solo, is a collection of clocks featuring, as decoration within the pendulum case, samples of a mineral called aztenite, which has as its single largest constituent the element tellurium."
Napoleon nodded, flipping through the narrow photo album before him. Aztenite… god, please say this didn't mean he was going to Mexico.
"The collection was crafted by a silversmith in Taxco, Mexico—" Dammit. "—and the aztenite samples originated in the Mexican state of Sonora." Double dammit. "They are the largest known sample globally and will likely remain so, as aztenite is endemic to Sonora and its source mine collapsed at the turn of the twentieth century."
"So it's rare," Napoleon remarked slowly. "Is it also valuable?"
"Its only practical application is in lasers, and its rarity is such that nobody has bothered actually using it for such, as other materials are cheaper and much more readily available. It is made attractive by its silver encasements and its being an historical memento, but is not in itself considered particularly impressive." Waverly puffed at his pipe for a moment, during which Solo entertained hopes of not having to head south of the border. "In short, Mr. Solo, no. It is not considered valuable by anybody save, perhaps, Victor Marton."
At Waverly's nod, Napoleon opened the file folder on the table before him to a photograph and brief profile of Marton.
"Mexican government intelligence has reason to believe that Monsieur Marton is determined to procure the aztenite samples featured in the clock collection, which is housed in a museum in Punto Viejo, a small city in Sonora. As the clocks are considered of historic significance but the aztenite is not, the government has asked us to procure the samples before Marton does, and then to return the clocks to their home museum, sans aztenite."
"And what is to become of the aztenite, sir?" Napoleon asked, hopes dashed upon the ridges of the Sierra Madre.
"We will be permitted to keep it in trust for the Mexican government for one year. If they determine they've no use for it, they will allow us to keep it and use it as we see fit."
"I see." Napoleon tapped himself on the chin a couple of times. "So, why doesn't somebody with the museum extract the aztenite and then just put the clocks back on display?"
"We want Monsieur Marton to believe he has the aztenite, and that it simply was not as useful as he had imagined, in order to preclude any future advances of his against the material."
Waverly motioned with his pipe and Solo flipped to the next page in the file folder, taking in the image of an attractive dark-haired man who did not seem in the least perturbed that the photo being taken of him was a mugshot.
"This is Rafael Delgado, a jewel thief. Some call him the Kind of Diamonds, as those are his preferred targets. He will be your partner in crime, so to speak, in exchange for our having persuaded Australian authorities to release him into our custody. If you find his services satisfactory, he will then be released to Mexican authorities who will supervise his probation as he serves out a term of community service."
"And how does Mr. Delgado tie in with Mr. Marton, sir?"
"Mr. Delgado will make no secret of his being back in Mexico. He and Marton have had several dealings in the past, and so we fully anticipate that Marton will seek out his services in obtaining the aztenite. You, Mr. Solo, will present yourself as Mr. Delgado's assistant."
"Apprentice jewel thief, of sorts?"
"If you like." Another puff of his pipe. "Mr. Delgado, in association with his profession, has also become quite proficient at handling some of the delicate operations of a jeweler. While the clocks are in your possession, he will remove the material before you return the artifacts, then present some facsimile of the aztenite to Monsieur Marton. Mr. Alsaqri in our labs has prepared a reasonably close set of mineral samples to serve this purpose. It is similar enough in appearance to be convincing, but its lack of tellurium content will ultimately render it a disappointment."
Napoleon opened the crushed-velvet bag and peered inside to the deep green, crystalline mineral, nodding when Waverly informed him that it was malachite, some of which would be fitted into the clocks by Delgado, and the rest of which would be handed over to Marton.
"Ah, and one more thing, Mr. Solo." Waverly pressed a button on the table and a projected image appeared on the wall. "This is the chamber in which the clock collection resides." He continued tapping at buttons on the table and the scene rotated back and forth as if controlling a video camera. "It is from a 3D tour available through the museum's website, produced prior to the acquisition of the collection. These ivory combs in the case at the center of the room have since been replaced by the clocks."
"I see."
"This is what I would like to draw your attention to." Waverly manipulated the image until the view was focused on a display case in the corner. "Rather an impressive display of jewels, is it not?"
Solo took in the array of rings and necklaces. "Yes, sir, it is."
Waverly nodded toward the photos still set before Solo. "And Mr. Delgado is rather an impressive jewel thief. In the course of this assignment, I expect you to assist him in resisting temptation."
Napoleon half expected Waverly to continue with "by any means necessary", but the chief was looking at him with a dull eyebrow-raise by this point, so he supplied the requisite "yes, sir" and assumed this meant he was to stop short of assassination whilst assisting the retention of Delgado's integrity. Which was good, of course, but not quite dramatic enough for Napoleon's aesthetic sensibilities.
That night
"I leave in the morning."
"Can you tell me where?"
"Somewhere in Mexico, is all I can tell you."
"That is good. You can practice your Spanish."
"Sí. Que bueno, eh?"
"For you, yes. Not for all the unfortunate Mexicans who will be subjected to your accent."
"Your Spanish accent isn't all that either, pal."
"It is not my accent that will be assailing their senses, so it is a moot point." Illya flicked off the light and joined Napoleon under the sheet, pulling the material up to his chin. He looked pained as he turned to the American with: "Do try to contain your enthusiasm when rolling your R's."
Napoleon was quiet for a moment, admiring the play of the dim light from the window on the crystalline eyes peering up at him, then smirked and gave a half-purr, half-growl meant to evoke thoughts of a tiger.
The pain turned to exasperation as the pale eyes rolled, and Napoleon was to no degree disappointed that the pale skin remained unflushed. Not at all.
"Rest assured, horobchyk, I purr only for you."
"You have never purred for me in your life, Napoleon," the Russian returned matter-of-factly, and the American was definitely not even a little sad that the tone betrayed not even a little bit of flusterment. Nope.
"Not yet. Maybe that's something we can work on after my assignment and your training session."
The blue orbs shifted away, and Napoleon was positively not treading the thin line between normal behavior and self-satisfied crowing as a delicate pink finally found its way to Illya's cheeks. "Perhaps."
"Then it's a date. Perhaps." Napoleon waited until the blush had left the nearby profile before reaching across the short distance to weave their fingers together and ask softly, "You'll be okay? While I'm gone, I mean."
A steeply arched eyebrow was the first response, followed up by an equally pointed, "Perhaps I'll not be as deliriously happy as I am in this moment, but I expect I can manage to achieve 'okay'."
"We'll be okay?"
"I told you that I will be okay. If you can manage the same, then yes: collectively, we will be okay."
"I mean… you'll still love me when I return?"
The arched brow joined its companion in furrowing. "Have you plans to do anything that might change my opinion of you while we are apart?"
"No, but since we probably won't see each other for at least a month—"
"I will not forget how I... feel about you." He offered a faint smile. "I trust you will not become overly enamored of any enchanting señoritas during your adventure abroad."
"You can trust that. You can trust me, chou."
"Yes. I can." Illya nodded sharply. "And I will."
Napoleon grinned. "And I can trust you?"
Illya blinked rapidly. "Pardon?"
"To not be enamored of a handsome fella who can make you laugh."
Blink. "I imagine so. I go to get training, not to get distracted."
"Well, I'm going to do business-y things, not to get distracted."
Frown.
"Okay, I see your point. I was joking, anyway. Mostly."
"Let us not start with petty jealousies. You have stated your devotion to me and, to the unwarranted benefit of your ego, I have thus far given no indication that I could possibly be remotely attracted to a person other than you. The matter is settled, is it not?"
"Yes, of course. Do, uh… do you think you could do something for me when you aren't busy with training?"
"Is that something within reason?"
"I think so."
"Then yes."
"You said that you love me."
The flush that definitely did not make Napoleon's heart grow three sizes definitely did return to Illya's face. "I did."
"And we discussed the possibility of our being an 'us' stretching several years into the future."
A blink and a pause. "Alright."
"And my mother oh-so-helpfully brought up the subject of marriage."
Another blink, then the blond head shook briefly as if shaking its owner out of a daze. He lifted his head to glance at the bedside clock. "We were supposed to be getting to sleep four minutes ago. Are you going to be getting to your little favor soon?"
"This isn't a proposal, but I'd appreciate if you could devote a few neurons to considering the question of whether you'd ever consider the idea of getting married to anything other than your work."
A couple more blinks, almost fluttering his eyelashes in their rapidity. "If those devoted neurons are the ones that just exploded, I am afraid you are out of luck."
"Just think about it. That way, if I ever do pop the question, I can be reasonably certain you won't have a heart attack or an overwhelming urge to stab me in the eyeballs."
Illya frowned. "I still do not see why marriage is something you would ever consider."
Napoleon hesitated. "Do you mean in the abstract 'ew, marriage sucks' sense, or the particular 'marriage as it pertains to Napoleon Solo' sense?"
"The latter. I have some grasp on the broader societal implications."
"Well… it's a promise, right? Two people make a promise that they'll love each other and care for each other and be together forever."
"'Til divorce do them part."
"In some cases, yes. But it can work out, you know. Can be good for people."
"So when you ask me to… contemplate marriage, you mean to ask whether I think I would be willing to make such a promise under an assumption that it shall not be for naught."
"I guess I do."
"I… don't know."
"That's why I want you to think about it."
"Ah." Illya simply stared into the brown eyes for over a minute before blurting, "You've already thought of it."
Napoleon hummed and nodded.
"But this is not a proposal."
"Right."
"But you are considering it."
"I plead the fifth until you've set your neurons to considering the matter."
"That means yes."
Napoleon made a lip-zipping motion and smiled.
"If you're sufficiently traditional that you would consider marriage…."
After allowing several seconds for Illya to go on without prompting, Napoleon urged quietly, "Yes?"
The pink on the cheeks started migrating southward. "We've not yet slept together—euphemistically I mean. And we are not—married."
"Yes."
Pinker. "Then if you, hypothetically and without incriminating yourself, might want to get married… should we… wait?"
Napoleon processed this for a moment, wasn't entirely clear on what was being asked, and echoed back, "Should we wait?"
Red. "I mean, you already have been. Waiting. But… if we do—get married," Illya practically choked on the words, "should we deliberately continue waiting to sleep together—euphemistically—until we… it's done?"
Another moment to synthesize the around-the-point tiptoeing, until he came up with, "Wait for sex until after marriage?"
Redder. Nod.
"I—" Napoleon cut himself off with a chuckle. "Well, I didn't wait for my first time, but if you want to wait for marriage for us to have our first time—"
"I meant to ask what you want," Illya cut in, tugging up the sheet enough to cover his flushed face from the nose down.
"I want whatever you're comfortable with. Whatever makes you feel good and right. If we never get married but we have sex, that's fine. If we get married and wait until then for it, that's fine. I love you, I desire you, I've done both pretty much since we met, and I expect to keep doing both for a long, long time."
Now he tugged the sheet over his head, and the muffled words floated up: "I will think about it."
"Thank you." He pressed a kiss to the bit of blond that was still visible. "Good night."
In the morning
"I feel that I should tell you something."
"Generally a safe assumption."
"I may have put in a good word for Mandy Stevenson."
Illya blinked at a banana slice. Then he blinked at some of the oatmeal surrounding it. When both failed to offer any inspiration, he blinked at Napoleon. When Napoleon blinked back, he said, "I appreciate your wanting to tell me things, but of what concern is that to me?"
Napoleon smiled sheepishly. "I guess I got a little ahead of myself. Must have been the overwhelming desire to get my impending strangulation overwith."
"Are you being melodramatic, or is this something serious enough to merit putting down my spoon and retrieving a ligature?"
Solo clenched a hand to his chest. "Melodramatic? How dare you, sir!"
Illya rolled his eyes and resumed his breakfast. He prompted around a mouthful, "So?"
"Do you remember Mandy?"
"The translator at the Pyatigorsk office, yes?"
"Yes. She's interested in becoming a field agent."
"It is good to have goals in life."
"Yes. And, as I am officially a full agent, I'm allowed to vouch for people within the organization. Doesn't necessarily mean they'll make the cut, of course, but I didn't think it'd do any harm to let Mandy have a shot."
Illya chewed on a slightly larger than average piece of banana. "Much as I admire your helping Ms. Stevenson live the dream, I still fail to see how this is relevant to me."
"Well, I know you're not so big on unnecessary socializing and, since she remembers you, she'll probably want to catch up, or possibly look upon you as her most likely companion…"
Illya frowned into his bowl. Mandy Stevenson. Potentially becoming a field agent for U.N.C.L.E. Socializing. Not the New York office, since he was due to leave for training the day after tomorrow, and he could surely manage to avoid her until then—
Ah.
Oh.
Oh.
Oh, no.
Illya stared into the awkwardly grinning face across the table. "You are sending her to the training session with me."
"I didn't mean to."
A large spoonful, to chew on some food while he chewed on this new development. "I was quite rude to her in Pyatigorsk. Perhaps that will preclude any interactions more strenuous than an exchange of pleasantries."
Napoleon somewhat reluctantly countered, "You were in a bad way then. She might chalk it up to your having been out of sorts."
Illya narrowed his eyes. "I am trying to give you an out so we might part on good terms. As you recommended. Don't argue with me."
"Right. I'm sure she'll still be extremely offended and ignore you entirely."
"You go too far."
"Right. You handle it."
"It has been handled."
"Thanks."
"Not at all. Her presence simply means that I will have less free time to devote to the contemplation of whether I might be open to the possibility of our getting m-ma—muh—huh." Illya glared into his oatmeal and muttered at it, "Another stupid word," before looking at Napoleon again. "You understand my meaning, yes?"
"Yes. In my defense, I didn't realize she would be approved so quickly. I guess it's because she'd already been screened before starting work as a translator."
"Indeed."
"And it can't be all bad. I mean, you must have something in common."
"Certainly."
"And surely she—"
"Napoleon."
"Hm?"
"I would like to enjoy your company."
"Wha—oh." Napoleon smiled sheepishly, and they enjoyed each other's company for the rest of the meal.
Afterward, Napoleon packed his bag, feeling rather flattered when Illya kept him company and chimed in with his opinions on what garments were worthy of international appearances.
This shirt was too Hawaiian. Leave it.
That one looked nice with them. Take it.
"Them?" Napoleon echoed, replacing the Hawaiian-print shirt in his suitcase with the pale green one.
Illya turned away and started flicking through Napoleon's collection of ties. "Your tan," he supplied quietly and then, quieter still, "and your arms."
"You mean my studly biceps that make most of the ladies and at least one of the guys swoon?"
"'Studly' is not a word and your biceps are part of your arms, aren't they?" He tossed a couple of ties in the general direction of the suitcase. "I like these."
Napoleon nodded at one, held up the other. "Not feeling this one, chou."
Illya took it back, flicked through a few more silken fabrics, and held up a second choice that Napoleon accepted before opening the bottom drawer of his dresser and motioning to the trousers within to silently ask for opinions on those.
Illya came over, paused a moment, and removed a couple of pairs, handing the short stack over with, "These make it look nice."
"It?"
Illya drew his head back and flicked his gaze downward just long enough to prompt a slow smile to spread across Napoleon's mouth.
"Why, Mr. Kuryakin, have you been admiring my ass? I feel so objectified."
A slightly shamefaced look later, Illya offered, "I didn't mean to."
"Didn't mean to admire it, or didn't mean to objectify me?" Before Illya could respond, Napoleon chuckled. "It doesn't matter, chou, it's okay. You're allowed to think your boyfriend is hot stuff." He winked and moved to put the pants into the suitcase. "I sure think mine is."
"One of us is wrong."
"Come on, now. No backsies."
The barest of hesitations. "That's not what I meant."
He ducked his chin as Napoleon came to stand very, very close and ask in a bewildered tone, "Then what did you mean? You can't think I hit on you in Spanish class because I admired your well-endowed headphones."
Now he lifted his chin, looking down his nose despite his disadvantage of a few inches. "I can think whatever I please, thank you."
"Of course you can," Napoleon cooed. "I just didn't think you enjoyed being wrong."
Illya let out a puff of air and glared at the suitcase. "Do you want me to help dress you or not?" Realizing how else this could be interpreted, he looked back to Napoleon with wide eyes and attempted, "I mean—"
"I know what you mean, tiger, but we agreed the purring was to be left until later."
Illya opened his mouth as if to argue that that wasn't what he meant, seemed to realize that Napoleon knew that already, and slouched back to the closet to grab one of the American's suit jackets and toss it over his shoulders.
"You should leave before I say something stupid," was the punctuation mark.
"Like 'I love you'?" Napoleon quipped.
"A four-letter word may be involved, yes."
"Well, fiddle-dee-dee, darlin', I didn't think you'd be so forward!"
Illya made a strangled sound in the back of his throat and went over to the suitcase, zipping it shut and hauling it out of the room.
"I'll miss you too, mon chou!" Napoleon called after him.
"Go away or you will miss your flight and the world will end or something," came back from the living room.
Napoleon chuckled and joined Illya over by the front door. He grinned and picked up the suitcase that had been deposited nearby. "I love you."
"Ditto."
"I'll miss you."
"Ditto."
"I think Napoleon is the most dashing figure of a man I've had the pleasure of meeting."
"Amusing choice of adjective."
Napoleon pouted, but shortly after had to suppress a smile as Illya leaned forward. Then he leaned in closer and Napoleon asked, "Did you want something?"
The corners of Illya's lips pulled up slightly and he took a small step forward.
"Gosh, Illya, do you expect me to read your mind?"
The blond head tilted to one side and, while Napoleon would have liked to draw this out a little longer, he really did have a flight to catch, so he tilted his head in the opposite direction and moved in to catch the offered lips with his own, using his free arm to press the shorter frame close to himself. He still wasn't sure why Illya seemed to prefer making this silent request for a kiss over taking the initiative himself, but he kind of liked it.
Once they'd parted, Napoleon returned to press another peck to the mouth and commented, "You know, you are allowed to just go ahead and kiss me more than once a week."
"I like when you kiss me," Illya countered, taking the suitcase and setting it down, then reaching around to help Napoleon into his suit jacket before pressing the suitcase back into his hand.
"Well, as long as it's getting done somehow, I don't mind who gets the ball rolling."
Illya opened the door and stepped aside. "Go save the butterflies, or whatever it is you're going to do."
"Go read instruction manuals, or whatever it is you're going to do." He pressed his lips to the smooth cheek, wondered again how often the baby-faced Russian had to trim his facial hair, and quipped, "But don't forget to shave first."
Illya gave him a shove into the hallway and whacked the door shut behind him.
"I'll call you as soon as I can," Napoleon hollered at the wooden barrier, "light of my life!"
"You'd better," was the response, so Napoleon smiled, set his bag on the floor, and started rolling it away down the corridor.
Elsewhere in the building
It was a nice little apartment. Not quite as luxurious as she'd have expected in the heart of Manhattan, but well-appointed with fantastic views and some very interesting neighbors.
"Marton mentioned something about the doorman being quite familiar with Ravel, didn't he?" Egret commented, and Rochelle nodded.
"Thomson was on Ravel's payroll."
"On mine now, I suppose?"
Rochelle nodded again. Flipped through a few papers Ravel had left for them. Handed over one of them.
Egret scanned the page, repressed a fiscally responsible scream of agony, and handed back the sheet. "Get ahold of him. For what I'm paying that man o' doors, he'll be more than delighted to start earning his keep."
That night
He was gone.
Illya shook his head at himself. Of course he was gone. They'd kissed goodbye and he'd be back soon. Illya would be gone and back a little less soon and then they'd be together and that's all there was to it.
Illya flicked down the covers and climbed in. Looked to the other side of the bed.
Had the other pillowcase always been so glaringly bright? So glaringly, obnoxiously, unrelentingly bright with the reflection of light from the window?
Illya shook his head again. Of course it had always been that way. It's just that Napoleon's head was usually there, covering part of the pillowcase with tanned skin and dark hair and distracting Illya from the rest of it with his dental-commercial-white smile.
Perhaps if he closed the curtain. Napoleon always left it open and only closed the blinds behind it partway: something about a flattering ambience from the combination of moonlight and city lights. Nonsense to anyone who had any sense to begin with, but Napoleon insisted and it was hard to argue when that flattering ambience was coloring the look of adoration that Illya had become far too used to being favored with every—
Illya Nikolayevich, what's happened to you?
A quick glance around the room reminded him that there was nothing in here worthy of being bathed in anything other than pure darkness, so he flicked back the covers again and rectified the lighting situation.
Illya spread out one arm across the mattress, shifting it up and down to feel all the unoccupied space, all the cool fabric of the sheet. He should be glad of the extra room, of an entire queen-sized bed all to himself, just like he had for the first several nights in this apartment, before he moved into this bed. Napoleon's bed. Their bed. Strictly for sleeping, of course, so Illya should get on that.
Although he did wonder if Napoleon really didn't mind that it was only for sleeping.
Couldn't ask him now, even if he could bring himself to voice the words.
Illya tucked his arm back to his side. Thought a moment and pulled up the other side of the blanket to cover most of the unoccupied pillow. Thought that, in the dark, this made it look as if he'd covered a very flat corpse for decency's sake and accordingly yanked the blanket back down.
He was gone. Back soon. Gone now. But he'd come back. Unless he didn't.
Illya got up and went over to the guest room, his old room.
Climbed into the guest bed, his old bed. Not Napoleon's.
Sheets smelled like laundry detergent. Not like Napoleon.
He scoffed at himself. Of course it was different: why should Napoleon smell like laundry detergent, outside of that one—well. That was irrelevant.
Somewhat more relevant was the fact that he hadn't even noticed how their bed smelled like Napoleon. Not until now, when he noticed the absence of his scent in the guest bed. Was he really so used to Napoleon's scent that it was just normal to him now? It was normal for him to breathe air permeated with the trace of Napoleon's being?
It sounded kind of gross when he thought of it that way but it felt even more gross to be here, alone, and had the laundry detergent always smelled so much of bleach? It felt like it was burning his nostrils, making his eyes water, stopping the air from leaving his throat, clenching his stomach into knots—
He got up and returned to his room, their room, Napoleon's room. Climbed back into his bed, their bed. Pulled the covers up over his head. Breathed deeply. Tried to pretend he wasn't alone.
That he wasn't gone.
He wasn't gone.
Wasn't gone.
Gone.
In the morning
Just one day. He only had to make it through one full day alone before he'd be shipping off for the training session. Only one full day of everything seeming weird, off, not right, but it would have to be his new normal.
He was entrusted to his own care again, so Napoleon and Mark and April didn't have to escort him everywhere. Weird for now, but he was sure he'd be glad of his privacy being returned soon enough.
Napoleon was a full agent now, so he'd be jetting off here and there on a regular basis. Felt wrong for them to be separated, but he knew it was necessary for work and important to maintain some independence from each other.
Still, it was all making everything feel just a little off, a little not-quite-right, and Illya didn't really like this uncertain feeling in the back of his mind that something was… not good.
He sighed at his unwarrantedly poor mood and started downstairs since the best thing to do was probably to inject some normality into his life and go to the office. Besides, if there was one thing he could rely on to never change, it was that Thomson (the doorman) would keep it short and polite, which was how Illya preferred the majority of his human interactions. He did, of course, occasionally enjoy a short and rude human interaction, but only when he was in a particularly foul mood and was the one providing the "rude" end of the conversation.
"Good morning, Mr. Thomson."
"Oh, good morning, Mr. Kuryakin—do you have a minute?"
Great. Solo had barely left a day ago, and now this was falling apart, too. He wasn't quite sure how he could pin this on Napoleon, but maybe he'd come up with something and give him a hard time over it once the American was back from whatever-ing in Mexico. "Certainly."
"Mrs. Brundtland wanted me to tell you something. Said she'd tell you herself, but sometimes it's a while between run-ins with you."
That was the plan. "A shame, indeed."
"The new resident—oh, Ms. Ravel moved out a couple months ago, if you hadn't heard."
So he'd been told at U.N.C.L.E., but that wasn't an acceptable response so: "I hadn't."
"Anyway, the lady who bought the place mentioned to Mrs. Brundtland about having trouble figuring out her smartphone, and Mrs. Brundtland mentioned about your being a computer scientist. Mrs. Brundtland wanted to know if you'd mind helping the lady out a little. Her name's Mrs. Borgia. Widow, I think, and no tech savvy grandkids."
Normally, Illya would leave the neighborliness to the American but, in his absence, perhaps carrying out the job would help him feel that he was making the effort to maintain their relationship while they were apart. Even if that did mean applying his technical expertise to helping an old lady—who he was quite certain he'd rather not have the pleasure of meeting—learn how to text.
Illya glanced at his watch. He didn't strictly have to be in the office for another couple of hours. Might as well get it overwith. "Is she in now, do you know?"
"Hasn't left since I got here, sir."
"Would you call up for me and ask if I may pay her a visit, Mr. Thomson?"
"Yes, sir." Thomson went to the building phone by the door and pressed a couple of buttons. "Good morning, Mrs. Borgia. This is Thomson. Do you remember the young man Mrs. Brundtland mentioned to you, ma'am? …Yes, ma'am. He says he can help you out now, if that's alright with you. …Yes, ma'am. Bye."
Thomson hung up the receiver. "She says to go on up."
"Which apartment is it?"
"8A."
Illya nodded his entirely insincere thanks and headed back to the stairwell. Up to the eighth floor. Apartment 8A. He knocked.
"Come in," a voice called from the other side, so he did—and was immediately seized by the arm, dragged in far enough for the door to be slammed shut behind, and had the barrel of a gun very nearly shoved into his right eye.
As he quickly reassessed the situation now that a firearm had entered the picture, something that could possibly be a second gun was pressed into his back, and the sound of two further weapons being cocked drew his attention to the left and right.
He supposed he should be flattered at the number of guards.
"I think he gets the idea, ladies," an unpleasantly familiar voice came from somewhere beyond the circle of armed women surrounding him, and the one in front accordingly moved off to the right as the others slowly released him and backed off by a couple of steps. The cleared view showed a trim woman seated behind a heavy walnut table.
Dr. Egret, as he remembered her when she was one of his professors at Cambridge.
"Illya, it's been a while," she greeted.
"I take it you do not require assistance with your phone."
She made a show of looking over a paper before her. "I see here in the list of residents of this building, that you share an apartment with… hm… Napoleon Solo?" She looked to him. "Don't you?"
Illya glanced to the guard at his left. "May I put my hands in my pockets or will that agitate your trigger finger?"
"No," Egret snapped. "I know the kinds of things you keep in your pockets."
"May I fold my arms?"
"No. But you have permission to answer everything I ask."
"The answer to your most recent inquiry seems to be in that little paper you have there."
"Are you yourself a part of the U.N.C.L.E.?"
Now that inquiry, Illya wasn't sure how to answer. Saying yes seemed like a bad idea: she might decide that made him a threat to T.H.R.U.S.H. and kill him, or she might try to force him into accessing internal U.N.C.L.E. information. Could saying no do any harm?
He decided on, "I am not an agent," since that was the truth until he completed his training, and that bought him a few extra moments of rumination. If he said no—well, she could kidnap him regardless of what he said…
"That's not what I asked," Egret pointed out, steepling her fingers. "Are you part of U.N.C.L.E.? Agent, enlistee, contractor? Any part."
Both responses had bad consequences associated with them, and answering honestly had a few extra negative outcomes tagged on, so lying it was. "I am not."
"Not what?"
"I am not part of U.N.C.L.E."
"But you are familiar with the organization."
"I know they saved me from a threat of abduction at your hands, Professor."
"You are friends with three U.N.C.L.E. agents."
"'Friends' is a rather strong word," he commented.
"Yes, but is it inaccurate?"
"Yes."
This time, with the slam of one hand on the table, she called him out on the untruth. "You live with Solo. You run with Slate. You let Dancer walk you home from class."
He frowned.
"Yes, I've been watching you, Illya. Did you think I'd give up so easy?"
"Easily," he corrected.
WHAM as the other hand slammed down. "U.N.C.L.E. agents are careful about spending time out in the open with civilians. They're cagey, so people like me can't work out who they're close to. Who they'd be willing to sacrifice information, labor, lives, morals to save. They don't go out together every—" WHAM "—single—" WHAM "—day—" WHAM "—do they, Illya?"
"They do if they fear the civilian is being watched by people like you, madam."
"But they don't fear it so much anymore, do they, Illya? They're all leaving you, aren't they, Illya?" She regained her composure, clasping her hands as she rested them on the surface before her. "Tell me why that should be."
"No organization has unlimited resources," he offered. "They cannot be my personal security indefinitely."
Egret shook her head. "Why would they leave you here, in the same city where I tried to take you, without protection? Why wouldn't they have you relocate?"
"U.N.C.L.E. is not T.H.R.U.S.H. They would not force innocent civilians to relocate against their will. That is kidnapping and that is your line, not theirs."
"Innocent civilians, no, but you are not an innocent civilian: you are a hacker. You could demolish any security system they develop. They would not leave you out in the open, up for grabs… unless they think you can defend yourself."
"There you are, then."
"Why do they think you can defend yourself?"
"I convinced them of it."
"How?"
"Is it not obvious?"
"How?"
"Irresistible charm."
WHAM.
"Your table-slamming does not intimidate me so you may as well spare your palms."
"Yes. May as well." She leaned back and smiled, and Illya decided that he liked it better when she didn't. Then she stopped smiling and he couldn't quite find it within himself to be relieved as her gaze hardened. "May as well let you have a break from lying to me. I know—" SLAM "—you—" SLAM "—hate—" SLAM "—this."
Illya feigned a yawn with the final slam of hand on wood. "Hate is a strong word, Dr. Egret. Will you be done with me soon? I imagine we both have more engaging matters with which to occupy ourselves."
Her hands set to folding the paper on the table. "U.N.C.L.E. has not historically kept a lot of information stored on the internet. Really slows down how fast they can transmit intelligence globally. Did you know that?"
Kuryakin opted to take her up on the offer of a break from lying, responding instead with silence.
"And since they aren't about to tell little old me if they decide to fix that little old issue of theirs, I will from time to time have someone… check up on it. Their security has historically been atrocious, don't you think?"
"Quite often."
"Excuse me?"
"I do think on a fairly regular basis, yes."
"Hm. Then perhaps you can tell me what you think of a few new developments I've encountered. February, there seemed to be a few new hoops to jump through on the way to accessing U.N.C.L.E. information."
She paused, so he contributed, "How stimulating for you."
"March, it took twice as long to get in as it used to."
Another stretch of quiet, so he filled it with, "Fascinating."
"April, we couldn't even find the entry portal for a few days."
He anticipated the coming hesitation and offered, "An embarrassment, indeed."
"Last week, worse. Yesterday, gone." She set down the origami bird she'd folded. Leaned forward on her elbows. "Isn't it an amusing coincidence that their digital security improved exponentially right on the heels of their establishing contact with you?"
"For those who are easily amused, it might hold some entertainment value." He looked to the guards at his right. "Mightn't it?"
SLAM.
"The durability of your palm is quite impressive, Professor."
Egret smiled. "I think we've wasted enough time, don't you? Shall we see how my little effort at hypnosis is holding up? How about a little Christmas in July?"
At the audio prompt that had previously sent him abruptly into a panic attack, Illya automatically tensed. It wouldn't do to have a panic attack at the thought of having a panic attack, though, so he reminded himself to breathe.
Good posture.
Clench and unclench his toes.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Things started to get fuzzy around the edges, but they weren't swirling.
The ground wasn't dropping out from under him.
His extremities were tingling, but not going numb.
"Hm." Her blurry head tilted and her blurry palm slammed into the table, and this time he couldn't repress the wince that he'd been holding in at the previous poundings. "Ah, there we are. Something, but not at full strength anymore. That's good. I don't want you to be afraid of me, Illya."
She stood and he gritted his teeth harder as Dr. Egret approached.
"Dear, dear boy," she said, and the words couldn't have sounded more uncharacteristic if he'd said them himself. "I misunderstood you before. Now—"
Somehow, his feet felt rooted to the spot, so he closed his eyes as she reached out a hand to his shoulder.
"—now, I understand what you need. I don't know how I misread you so badly when it's really so simple."
Somehow, all the moisture had left his mouth, which didn't seem open to the idea of reversing its clenching motion, so he tried to focus on breathing slowly through his nose as Dr. Egret very gently patted his shoulder. He opened his eyes once the hand withdrew.
"You're going to be very happy with us, Illya."
Somehow, he didn't think he believed that.
"Give me your phone, Illya."
Illya produced his phone, started to hold it out, and let it drop to the floor when his elbow was halfway extended with a flat, "Oops."
Egret smirked humorlessly and snapped her fingers, and one of the henchwomen swiftly retrieved the phone. "Hold that for our dear Illya, won't you? We don't want him distracted by the wonders of technology just yet." She turned back to Illya. "Why don't we have a little chat in the sitting room?"
"I don't suppose this is an offer I can refuse."
"You suppose correctly, as always, my dear."
"I don't suppose it would do much good if I said that being called that by you is affecting my eardrums much as I imagine a power-drill would."
"Well, nobody can bat a hundred: now you suppose wrong. If you don't like it, there's no need for me to overplay my hand." Once she'd appreciated Illya's blinks of surprise long enough, she motioned through the archway to the sitting room. "Shall we?"
He followed her there, sitting on the loveseat she indicated and shifting himself as far as he could to one end as she occupied the other.
"I imagine you have questions," Egret remarked. "You may ask one."
Illya frowned at her equanimity, thought a moment, and decided on, "Am I to stay here or be whisked off to some undisclosed location?"
Egret smiled. "I did consider both options, but I'm sure you'd be most comfortable in your own apartment. Wouldn't you rather stay in your own home?"
Illya blinked. "Not to be picky, but I was under the impression that I was being abducted."
"Only a wee little bit, Illya. Rochelle." She held out a hand and one of her crones dropped half a pill into it. "Illya." She extended her freshly be-pilled hand to the Russian.
"Is this instead to be the matter in which I have no say?"
"Not entirely. It goes in here—" Egret indicated his mouth. "—or else it goes in here," she concluded, indicating his arm and using her thumb to mime a syringe's plunger. She nodded to Rochelle, who this time handed Illya a bottle of water as soon as he'd plucked the tablet from Egret's palm.
Illya took the bottle, holding it up to use as a magnifier as he pinched the pill between his index and middle fingers. Matte. About the same shade as an orange or a traffic cone. No words or other identifying marks printed on it.
"Might I ask what it is before ingesting its contents, one way or the other, Professor?"
"It's your medicine, Illya."
He frowned. This did not look like his medication.
"We're going to be working together, Illya. I promise it won't kill you."
Rochelle made a quiet noise, Egret glared at her, and Illya frowned harder.
"Here or here," Egret repeated, motioning to mouth and arm again. "We're not trying to kill you, Illya. You're too useful."
He sighed and popped the tablet into his mouth and took a swig of water and then actually swallowed the damn orange thing after Rochelle grabbed him by the chin and opened his mouth to check.
"Well done," Egret praised, and Illya wasn't sure whether she was talking to him or Rochelle. "You'll enjoy working with me, Illya. Maybe not now, but you will."
Illya did his best to convey his lack of interest by blanking his expression and ceasing to make any attempts at contributing to the conversating, but Egret didn't seem to mind. The Russian wasn't clamping his hands over his ears and shouting la-la-la at the top of his lungs, so it was fine with her.
Museo Regional de Punto Viejo, Mexico
"Perdón. Estoy buscando—" Solo broke off as the man turned around and he recognized him from the photograph he'd been shown: Rafael Delgado. Who, he sheepishly recalled, spoke perfect English.
"You will find, sir, that most Mexicans appreciate that you are putting in the effort to speak our language and will embrace you for your kindred spirit."
Napoleon felt better.
"You will also find, sir, that I am not most Mexicans."
He felt less better.
"I, Mr. Solo," the man gestured to himself, "am Rafael Delgado. It pains me to have been coerced into stealing something that will forthwith be returned, so perhaps you will agree that, going forward, we will communicate in English. I'm going through enough as it is."
"If memory serves, Mr. Delgado, you could be going through worse. You could be going through several years of a prison sentence right now."
"And instead it has been postponed."
"Commuted."
"This particular sentence, yes."
Solo pulled a dramatic frown. "Why, Mr. Delgado, don't tell me that you don't have every intention of being a fine, upstanding, law-abiding citizen in the near future!"
Delgado pressed one hand to his chest. "I, sir, am an artist. If art is a crime, I must sacrifice myself to its commission."
"Yes, yours is truly the most noble profession. And I'm not opposed to puns, either."
Delgado smiled. "At last I am appreciated. Shall we start casing—that is, shall we have a wander through the museum?"
"Lead the way, my good man."
As they cased—that is, wandered through the museum, Delgado pointed out the features he apparently thought to be of importance while making small talk. "Have you been to Mexico before, Mr. Solo?"
Oh, shut up. Napoleon nodded as the thief gestured to a floor-to-ceiling stained glass window: to the uppermost, center panel with a hinge at the top. "To Acapulco a few times."
"Ah, a delightful place for a vacation, eh?" You have no idea. "Did you watch the cliff divers?" Delgado whistled as he used his pinky to trace an imaginary trajectory for someone leaping from the top window to the floor.
"Yes. Personally, I think I'd prefer climbing up to diving down."
"Well, if you climb up, presumably you will have to get down somehow."
"I have a bit of mountaineering experience. Pretty good with ropes and clambering. Wouldn't call my landing skills particularly catlike."
Delgado nodded sagely. "That sounds reasonable. A landing from certain heights could be rather noisy, anyway."
"And break some ankles."
"Which would be rather noisy, no?"
Napoleon couldn't help but laugh and think that that observation sounded like one Illya would make. "That's exactly what my—uh, roommate would say. He has strange priorities."
"To me, he sounds very reasonable, your 'Uh Roommate'." Delgado waited a moment before adding air quotes ex post facto.
"Oh, good. I don't seem work well with people who have reasonable priorities." Napoleon glanced from floor to ceiling. "And are you also interested in climbing, Mr. Delgado?"
"I have found it useful in my work, yes." Delgado waved him through to the chamber on the left, and the pair walked into the room that (based on the map Napoleon had seen of the museum) was the last before the room housing their target. "There is a little shop I used to buy my equipment at, here in the city. Perhaps we can stop there after we finish our visit here."
"Sounds like a plan to me."
"Ah, isn't that a lovely sight!" Delgado walked quickly to the other side of the room, purportedly to admire a painting there but shifting his gaze intermittently to the side, to a security panel.
"Yes, indeedy-do. I'm afraid I'm not an overly sophisticated consumer of this form of art. Would you say this is a more complex sample of the artist's work?" Will it be hard to disable?
"I find it rather primitive, but it is pleasant to look at, no?" I could do it blindfolded while suffering a migraine and with both hands tied behind my back. "Let us see the next room. Perhaps there is another sample for us to admire there."
Napoleon nodded and, as they casually headed into the next room, he remarked, "I guess painting isn't really my bag, but I dabble in filmmaking." You take the non-camera security components; I'll handle the cameras.
Delgado followed the subtle nod of Solo's chin to the security camera mounted in the corner. "Not my favorite medium, but I appreciate it as a creative enterprise." Well, at least you won't be totally useless.
The display in the center of the room caught their collective eye and they headed over.
"Gosh, isn't that an impressive little collection," Napoleon mused, leaning over the glass case of the display. These are the clocks we're borrowing.
"Ah. They are—how should I put this?" Delgado smiled. "Cute."
Napoleon grinned. "Priceless antique clocks imbued with the history of your country, and they're 'cute'?"
"Look, they are so small, and not a jewel among them, let alone a diamond—ah!"
The American frowned as his assigned thievery expert headed off to a corner of the room: the corner containing a case containing several large jeweled pieces.
"Now this, Mr. Solo, is truly spectacular. And that—ah, that is stunning!"
Napoleon skirted a couple of children who'd come up to stare into the case with the clocks and joined Delgado at the jewel case. He smiled, "Yes, Mr. Delgado, very impressive." But no touching.
"Ah, but is this not a superior collection, Mr. Solo? Metals, they shine, yes. But gems—diamonds—they glimmer, they sparkle—they are far more impressive." He stroked his chin and after a moment said thoughtfully, "In many cases, more valuable per gram, as well." Are you sure you wouldn't be open to the idea of a side gig?
"Fascinating." No.
"Perhaps another look at those clocks you seem so fond of will reveal to me how delightful they are." Fine.
"I'm sure of it, Mr. Delgado." If you steal anything you're not supposed to steal, I will drag you back to that Australian prison with my bare hands.
Delgado returned to the clocks' case and flashed a smile at the lady who'd just joined the children there. "Ay, que linditos son, señora. Tesoros como esas joyas, ¿no?"
At Delgado's gesture, the children scampered to the jewel case in the corner and the lady followed after, shooting a returning grin and a gracias to Delgado.
With the clock showcase once again to themselves, Napoleon leaned in for a closer look at the contents—or, rather, any sign of anything that would impede the process of getting the contents out of the showcase.
Delgado also leaned in a bit and murmured by Solo's ear, "Clearly the museum agrees with my opinion, Mr. Solo. This is nothing. It is practically an insult to me that you ask me to do this."
"I didn't ask you," Napoleon countered. "My uncle asked you."
"Then it is an insult to you that he asked me to do this." As the lady and the children wandered out of the room, Delgado further lowered his voice to add, "Those little monsters could do this even with their grubby little fingers sticky with sweets."
Napoleon chuckled. "I thought they were 'lindito tesoros'."
"I thought we agreed you would spare me your attempts at Spanish." Delgado shook his head grimly. "Your grammar pains me deeply, sir."
They looped around the rest of the museum for the sake of appearances, and also to check for anything else in the floor plans that could be of use to them, then headed out into the cloudy warmth of the late morning.
"And when might I expect Mr. Marton to invite me to borrow the clocks?" Delgado wondered as they paused on the colonnaded museum patio.
"I would guess—"
"Señor Delgado!"
They looked up from their conversation, then down the stairs to the man trotting toward them. He talked to Delgado for a bit, Napoleon catching enough to conclude that this was the invitation they'd been waiting for, then gestured back down, to an expensive-looking car with tinted windows.
Delgado made a sound of agreement, then clapped Napoleon on the shoulder with a companionable, "Vámanos, my friend."
The man shook his head vigorously. "El jefe prefiere que usted viene sólo, señor."
"Pero claro que Solo!" Delgado gestured between the other two men. "Señor García, may I introduce Señor Solo, my apprentice. Él viene conmigo."
"Pero—"
"Matcha gasto, senior Garza," Napoleon chimed in, offering a hand to shake.
"Un placer," García returned, not sounding, looking, or feeling the least bit pleased, delighted, or patient as he shook the offered hand.
Napoleon turned back to Delgado. "See how much worse I could be?"
Delgado donned a look of disappointment that would do any exasperated parent proud. "How much better than that do you think you are, sir?"
A loud sigh from García caught their attention and Marton's messenger made an exaggerated gesture toward the car. They headed down and got into the vehicle, which whisked them to a small house on the outskirts of town. Marton greeted them outside.
"Delgado, how delightful to see you enjoying life outside a prison cell!"
"Yes, it was quite challenging to enjoy it inside of one," Delgado returned, enthusiastically shaking the Frenchman's hand. "It is a joy to see you again, as well, and may I introduce you to my assistant, Mr. Napoleon Solo. He has been so blessed as to be learning my trade from the world's preeminent expert."
"The pleasure is mine, Mr. Solo," Marton nodded to Napoleon, then turned back to Delgado. "As you might imagine, I have need of assistance from the world's preeminent expert. Please, come inside and we can chat." He smiled at Napoleon. "You are welcome to join us, Mr. Solo. It is always a delight to foster new talent."
"Why, thank you, Mr. Marton," Napoleon grinned back. "It's always a delight to meet a gentleman of your standing."
U.N.C.L.E.-New York
It was quiet lately. Had been for the past few weeks, since Solo, Dancer, and Slate had graduated to full agent status and accordingly been granted the privilege of using Channel D.
Now, the only trainee left at the New York office was Kuryakin. Quiet Kuryakin. The shy kid who assiduously met all his secretarial needs on his own without daring to bother the actual secretary. Hopefully the one or two new recruits who'd prospectively be arriving in the next month would be less helpful.
At least this left Gerry some time to pop around back to his old stomping grounds in Engineering, and sometimes Ramzy Alsaqri (the chief chemical engineer) would take the hint that I'm bored out of my damn skull and let him help out with the things that didn't require fine motor skills.
BEEP!
Gerry looked to the red light blinking on the computer panel. The security light for Solo and Kuryakin's place. He tapped at the appropriate places on his headset to open Channel S. Waited a second for the clicking sound that signaled the receiver was accepting the call. When it didn't come, he tapped again and said anyway, in case Kuryakin's communicator was slightly broken, "Greetings, Mr. Kuryakin. Everything okay in the residence?"
No response, so Gerry grabbed the landline and punched in the apartment's phone number.
Again no response, so Gerry tried Kuryakin's cellphone.
Still no response, so Gerry switched over to the Security line. "Ogola here. Alarm went off at Solo and Kuryakin's apartment. Solo's on assignment and Kuryakin's not responding."
"On it."
April sighed to herself as she blindly felt around for the communicator currently acting the part of an alarm clock, assembled the darn thing, and hooked it to one ear with a bleary, "Dancer."
"Yes, this is Innings with Security. We need you to do a welfare check with Kuryakin. Slate will meet you at Kuryakin's apartment. Possible intruder. Use caution."
April sat bolt upright. "On my way."
"Straight up without calling up?" Slate asked. Dancer nodded, so they used their copy of the building entry key and took the stairs up, so it would be easier to monitor for the presence of possible intruders. Once at the door, they briefly had a hand-gesture-based discussion of whether or not to knock first, and Dancer mentally recording their time of entry as 0200 hours before rapping at the surface.
A few moments later, the sounds of unlocking came through, Slate and Dancer put their hands to their guns, and the door opened to reveal a slightly rumpled Kuryakin.
"In the event that it has escaped your notice, it is two in the morning."
"The alarm in your apartment went off at one forty-nine in the morning," Dancer supplied.
The slightly droopy blue eyes opened a bit wider.
"Can we come in?" Slate asked.
A moment of hesitation, then a nod and Illya opened the door wider, flicking on the lights as Mark and April entered.
Mark shut the door, latched the chain, and remarked, "Gol', Sparky, was you this pasty last time I saw you?"
Illya shrugged. "I suppose that depends on how glue-like you thought I was the last time you saw me."
April grunted in agreement at the assessment of pallor, but noted as she started peeking around into the kitchen and living room, "You're a little flushed."
Illya huffed and blew some hair out of his face. "Am I pale or flushed?"
"You look like you have a fever," April clarified. "Slate, check his vitals while I have a look around."
"Roger that," Mark agreed. "Come have a sit-down and we'll play doctor and patient, eh, matey?"
Kuryakin's gaze followed Dancer rather belatedly as she started checking the residence, then returned to Slate and looked slightly dizzy from his rapid head-turning as he asked, "Am I not permitted an opinion in this matter?"
"Not really, chum." He motioned with one hand and put a hand to the Russian's shoulder with the other. "Come on, then. Sit down before you fall down."
"I'm not—"
"Just play along, right? Anybody been over to visit you since Polo stepped out?"
"No," Illya said slowly, shrugging away from the guiding hand and heading to the couch a few steps ahead of Mark, "perhaps I… tripped an alarm?"
Slate harrumphed quietly, catching the thermometer that Dancer lobbed at him from the bathroom doorway. "How do you think you could have done that?" he wondered, taking the thermometer from its sheath, shaking it out, and adding, "You can answer that after you've heated up the mercury, yeah?"
Illya slouched back into the sofa cushions, thermometer under his tongue, arms crossed, eyes trailing after April as she made a quick initial sweep for people before beginning the longer sweep for non-U.N.C.L.E. monitoring devices and remotely controlled weapons.
"I'm not sure," Illya mumbled as Mark removed the stick. "I felt dizzy a bit earlier. Could I have bumped into something, perhaps?"
"You know your security system better than I do," Slate pointed out, "but I suppose so—yikes, that's a temp, ain't it?"
"Hm?"
"Approaching a hundred-two on the Fahrenheit, mate. We'll get your arse back in bed once Dancer's cleared it. Oy, April?"
"Yep?" April's voice joined them from the kitchen.
"We got a fever, mate—and we're usin' the 'we' as if we're a nurse or somethin'."
"Aw, blondie, I'm sorry for keeping you up. Auntie April will do your room next so you can get some rest."
Illya sort of sighed, but it came out being about fifty percent yawn.
"Anything unusual happen that you can recall?" Mark asked.
A headshake of denial.
"Haven't heard, seen, consumed anything out of the ordinary for you?"
Another.
"Why'd you not answer the phones or your communicator?"
Another, and he dropped his forehead into one hand. "I was not feeling well so I went to bed early to sleep it off, so I would be ready to depart for the training session in the morning."
"Don't know as I'd count on that, mate." Mark took out his communicator. "Open Channel S."
"Channel S open. Hey ya, Starfish."
"Hey, Ger, everything seems in order so far, far as the residence goes. Kuryakin's running a fever. He suggested he might've tripped something. Dancer's making sure nothing else is out of place."
"Okay. You can clear out once you clear the residence, if Kuryakin doesn't need attention. You need Medical?"
"Nah, not here, I don't think, but could you connect me to Med? I want Illya to have a little chat with 'em, right?"
"Will do, Starfish," Gerry signed off, and Mark smiled sympathetically as Illya shook his head vigorously, looking first disturbed and then dizzied by the time the Brit had handed over the communicator.
"Hello, Doctor. …A mild fever. …A bit dizzy. Headache. …No. …No. …Must I? I am scheduled to attend the training session. …But I was cleared last week, and I have done much more strenuous activity in a much worse condition."
Mark managed not to flinch back as Illya stared at him in lieu of the doctor he was speaking to over the communicator. "I defended my Master's thesis with the flu and won a national judo competition the next day. With all due respect, Doctor, I imagine I can muddle through Principles and Practices of U.N.C.L.E. given my present circumstances—pardon? …No, I will not have time to 'swing by' before leaving. …Very well. Kuryakin out."
Illya terminated the connection, handed the device back to its owner, and said tersely, "I have effectively been barred from the training session, pending a medical checkup in the morning."
Dancer came through then, declaring, "Kitchen's clear. I'll check out your room and you can get some shuteye."
"Yes, one must be adequately rested for medical appointments and convalescing."
April raised an eyebrow but carried on with her job as Mark sympathized, "Mate, didn't realize you were so psyched for the session."
"It is more psyching than seeking medical attention."
"You're a tough little bugger: chance you'll sleep it off. And if you don't, look on it as a stay-home holiday, yeah?"
"My eyes are dysfunctional enough without deluding them into untruths told by rose-colored glasses, Mark."
"So that's a no?"
The dysfunctional eyes pinned Slate with a glare that made him more grateful than he'd ever admit that April had just finished clearing the apartment.
"Make sure to answer your assorted modes of communication next time, okay?" Dancer urged.
A nod mercifully terminated the glare.
"I'll drop by in the morning to make sure you get to Med," she added and, in response to the reemerging glower, went on, "because we'd get our butts handed to us if you decide to jet off to the training session and, even if you do behave yourself, I'd feel bad if you got worse overnight and had to wander around with a high fever."
"I could call if necessary," Illya suggested.
April shrugged. "Should, could… would?"
Illya sighed.
"I didn't think so. I'll swing by around nine, okay?"
"No, but I accept it as the inevitable eventuality."
"Who could ask for anything more?"
Around five in the morning local time, Napoleon got out of bed and headed out to the hotel room veranda. To the right, the new part of the city, tall shiny buildings with the more antiquely regal Museo just across the street. To the left, the old part of town, where Delgado said he had a niece to whom they'd pay a visit later today.
Napoleon turned around again, resting back against the railing and confirming his good view through the window-paned doors of Delgado, thus far still dozing peacefully and betraying no inclination to bail on the assignment. The climbing gear and other necessities they'd picked up yesterday remained safely stowed between his own bed and the far wall.
He put his communicator to his ear and called for Channel S, as Illya was still being served by the trainee channel.
"Bubby!" was the greeting.
"Gerry-pie, you haven't forgotten me, after all!"
"Could never do, bop-a-doo. Might I presume you're lookin' to chat with your blond bombshell?"
"You might indeed, my dear."
"Will do, sugar, will do, but first…"
"First?" Napoleon echoed at the hesitation.
"Nothing to worry about much, but your lovebird's been grounded. He's got a fever and tripped off your own security system, so he's been dropped from the training session this time around. Just FYI. You dig?"
"Yeah… yeah."
"I'll patch you through, kiddo."
A crackling noise later, a sleep-roughened, "Kuryakin," came through.
"Y'know, when I called you 'hot stuff', I didn't mean it as a challenge."
A pause. "Napoleon?"
"Of course, Napoleon!" The American bluffed an aggrieved tone, figuring the Russian would prefer sarcasm over sympathy. "Who else has been calling you 'hot stuff'?"
A sigh told him he'd figured right. "Should you not be busy offending people with your Spanish or assassinating someone or… something?"
"Yes, but I figured the best way to get my day off to a good start would be to get yours off to a good start. You're welcome."
"I take it you've been informed of my… misfortune."
"How bad is it, chou? Don't lie to me."
"It is not so bad. Bad enough to keep me at home, yes, but I'm hardly on my death bed."
"But you have a temperature," he hinted.
"Of course I have a temperature, Napoleon. Everything has a temperature. Interstellar space has a temperature."
"I mean, an abnormal-for-a-human type temperature."
"Yes."
Napoleon bit back a huff of breath at the defensive tone and decided to move on for now. He could pester someone else for details later. "Gerry mentioned you set off our alarm. Have you been drinking much?"
"Of course not. Dehydrating myself would hardly be conducive to a speedy recovery, Napoleon."
"I don't mean alcohol, smart guy, I mean water. Have you been drinking water?"
"Indeed, I have done so nearly my entire life. I pride myself on being quite expert in that regard."
"I mean, have you been drinking enough of it lately?"
Illya released the puff of air Napoleon had withheld. "I've had a good deal of experience with convalescence. I assure you I can manage a mild fever and nausea."
"Nausea? You're nauseous, too?"
Pause. "Only when I get dizzy."
"Dizzy? Illya, when was the last time you had a drink—of water?"
"It must have been within the last three days, given I am still clinging to life. Insert feeble cough."
Napoleon clenched his fist around the railing, reminded himself that Illya could get prickly at the best of times and it was therefore entirely to be expected that he was getting outright snippy at the less-best of times, and said firmly, "Illya, I want you to get a drink right now. Then I want you to get the biggest bottle you can find in the kitchen, fill it up with water, and keep it with you at all times."
"Napoleon—"
"That's a request for now, horobchyk. Don't make me sic a nurse on you. I'll do it if I have to."
A sigh and some rustling sounds were followed up by a few loud swallows, then a quiet gasp and a heavy, "There."
"Thanks."
"Welcome."
Delgado was starting to stretch and sit up by this point, so Napoleon said, "I should probably get going on the gainful employment schtick now, but I'll call you again soon. Try not to die or anything in the meantime."
"If you insist."
"Love you."
"I—Napoleon?"
At the suddenly urgent tone, Napoleon stood up a little straighter. "Yes?"
"I-I… nothing."
He waited a moment before asking, "Are you sure?"
"Yes," was the rather uncertain-sounding response.
"Really?"
"Yes. Good morning, Napoleon. You—please—I-I mean… please… don't die?"
"I won't if you won't. Promise."
It was a nice little neighborhood. Small two-storied houses with stucco facades, each enclosed in its own courtyard, surrounded by concrete and black metal fences, guarding a single parking spot and a patch of grass landscaped to suit the owner. Close to bus stops and a park, it was the kind of place Napoleon could almost picture renting a place for a vacation with a by-then hopefully less-cranky Russian. Maybe making some happy Mexico-based memories would be good for him.
For now, though, Solo took Delgado's lead from the bus stop to one of the tidy little houses, nodding as Delgado held open the unlocked gate for him and walking up the parking pad, past the tiny garden, to the beige home with vibrant flower boxes in every window.
The emerald green door opened after a few quick raps and the eyes of the dark-haired young lady behind it went wide. "Rafa!" she exclaimed.
"Moniquita, mi muñequita!"
"Que? Pero… que?!"
"Mr. Solo, may I introduce you to my niece, Mónica del Valle."
Napoleon smiled at Mónica in her fitted burnout t-shirt and her red bra underneath and her equally red painted-on jeans—
"Señor Solo dice—" Delgado gave a wolf whistle.
Del Valle rolled her eyes. "Hay cosas que no requieren traducción, Rafa," she said as she opened the door wider and gestured for the pair to enter.
"I did not say that!" Solo protested as he followed Delgado inside, looking everywhere but at Mónica, who bore more than a passing resemblance to an enchanting señorita.
"You did not have to. Tell me, does your Uh Roommate—" He paused after the word to make air quotes with his fingers. "—know of your proclivities?"
Yes, Napoleon mused, he did, and he expected Solo to keep those proclivities under control. "Look, fella—"
"Oye, Tío," Mónica cut in, shutting the door loudly. "Una vez más: que?"
"I take it you didn't mention to your lovely niece about your grand escape," Napoleon commented with a wry grin.
"Escape?" del Valle echoed. She slapped Delgado's arm with the back of one hand. "Your escape?"
Delgado turned an aggrieved expression to Solo. "Now see what you did, butting in?"
Napoleon shrugged. "Not my fault I didn't know she speaks English." He jumped when Mónica gave his arm a milder version of what Delgado's had received.
"And who are you, Mr. Solo? You helped this bandit escape?"
"Bandit!" Delgado interjected. "I—"
"—am an artist," Mónica chorused with her uncle. "Yes, you keep telling yourself that," she said. "So. Why are you here and how are you here?" She frowned at Napoleon. "And the same questions for you, Mr. Solo. And also, who are you?"
"Napoleon Solo," the American introduced himself, producing his business card and presenting it to Delgado's niece, "with the U.N.C.L.E. We were in need of someone with your uncle's talents, and so he graciously agreed to assist us in exchange for our springing him from the pokey."
Mónica looked over the card front and back and returned it to Napoleon in short order. "Cute. Any idiot with paperboard and a printer could make this, but okay, Mr. Agent. Why do you come here?" She glared at her uncle. "I suppose you want the bag you left me with."
"You left your own flesh and blood holding the bag?" Solo tutted at Delgado. "Bad form, old boy."
Delgado ignored the peanut gallery to assert, "Yes, I want my bag," and then informed the peanut gallery: "It contains some of my specialized tools."
"They are your criminal things?" Mónica exclaimed. "You said it contained some things left to you by Abuelita!"
"It does, my dear," Delgado smiled, "but it does also contain more… practical artifacts." He gestured toward an interior door, presumably behind which he supposed the bag was being stored. "Please, mija."
Mónica sighed—"Ay, tío!"—and stomped off through the door he'd indicated. She returned shortly with a wheeled backpack that she dragged behind her. "Here are your stupid toys, Rafa. Now can you plot elsewhere? I am already an accomplice for having returned your things to you, so I would prefer not to further incriminate myself."
Solo smiled disarmingly. "I assure you, Miss del Valle, that we will be conducting U.N.C.L.E. business."
"And I assure you, Mr. Agent, that I'm not an idiot. Sadly, I cannot be certain that the same can be said for you." She pointed at Delgado. "You cannot trust him."
"I'd prefer not to, señorita, but he's my only option for the time being."
She nodded. "Okay, you are not an idiot. Only a fool for thinking he will not find an angle to get something for himself."
Solo fixed his smile on Delgado. "Gee, it's always helpful to have a relative vouch for your character, isn't it?"
Delgado reciprocated the grin and, once he'd taken the bag from Mónica, clapped Napoleon on the shoulder. "Ah, but we are kindred spirits, you and I! I have an incredible intuition about that sort of thing. Are you quite certain that you would not care to partake in a small side mission in the course of executing our primary assignment? Perhaps a trinket for a special someone whom you have betrayed no sign of having?"
"If you're asking whether I want to steal the jewelry you seemed so taken by at the museum," Napoleon returned, "the answer is still no."
"Come now, Mr. Solo, don't be a—a—ah, I know the word," Delgado mused, snapping his fingers a couples of times as he tried to recall it.
Napoleon waited a few seconds for the word to spring to the Mexican's mind but, when it did not seem immediately forthcoming, asserted, "Mr. Delgado—"
"Wait, wait, wait! I have it: fuddy-duddy. You, sir, are a fuddy-duddy."
"Mr. Delgado, I promise you that I am the least fuddy of all the duddies you could possibly have been stuck with for this assignment."
Mónica growled. "Oh, damn it, you idiots, leave!" She flung open the front door. "Get out!"
"But, mija," Delgado protested as she grabbed his elbow and started hauling him to the exit, "I have told Mr. Solo so much of the warm, welcoming character of Mexicans!"
"Warm, yes. Welcoming, yes. Stupid, no. You will be welcomed warmly when you go straight."
Delgado tutted. "What a terrible thing to say of Mr. Solo and his Uh Roommate, my dear!"
"You know what I mean, Rafa." She gave him a little shove to get him onto the walkway, then stood back and glowered at Napoleon. "Go do your job. Don't be taken in by this idiot."
"Scout's honor, ma'am," Napoleon pledged, giving Mónica a rather wide berth as he sidled past, to avoid being singed by the steam he would have sworn was spewing from her ears. He and Delgado both jumped when Mónica slammed the door shut as soon as Solo's fundament had crossed the threshold.
Napoleon smoothed down the hairs that had been blown askew by del Valle's farewell and decided, "Hate to break it to you, friend, but I'm withdrawing your nomination for Uncle of the Year."
"Ah, she loves me, really. But, like many members of the law-abiding citizenry, she frets over the more freewheeling elements of society."
"I wouldn't call that 'fretting', but whatever floats your boat."
Delgado shrugged. "Tomato, tomatillo, sir. Shall we float our collective boat elsewhere and get to plotting?"
"I reckon so."
Thanks for reading, :)