A/N, chapter warning: Please note this chapter includes a description of someone discovering a suicide.
Act III: An orchid, a barnacle, a leopard, and a bowler
Sixteen years ago
June
Acapulco
How come it always had to happen when they were on vacation? At home, he could sleep through the night. At hotel, he ended up having to take a trip to the bathroom in the middle of the night, in the dark, in a place whose layout he hadn't had committed to memory since his pre-school days. Napoleon sighed deeply, stopping midbreath as he reminded himself that his sister was in the other bed and it wouldn't be nice to wake her up just because his bladder had travel anxiety.
He glanced to the other bed and found that his premature sigh termination had been in vain, as the covers were a mess and Carlota wasn't among them. Even better: he had to get up in the dark in a strange room in the middle of the night after waiting for his sister to get out of the bathroom that linked their hotel room with their parents'.
Napoleon looked at the clock on the nightstand between their twin beds, and he kept looking as five past one became six, seven, eight, nine…
The boy scrambled out of bed. Whatever Carlota was doing in the bathroom, she'd have to finish real soon—preferably now—since he really wasn't sure how much longer he could hold it.
Since there wasn't anybody in the room to be bothered by it, he turned on the bedside light to help get him to his destination without stubbing one or more toes and padded over to the bathroom.
Knock-knock-knock.
No reply, but light was coming from under the door, so he knew she was in there.
Knock-knock-knock.
"Hey, Carlota," he whispered loudly. "Almost done in there?"
Knock-knock-knock.
"I really hafta go, Lota."
Knock-knock-knock.
"C'mon, Lota, I'm too old to wet the bed!"
Knock-knock-knock.
"Lota!" He put his ear to the door, listening for any sort of a sound, which never came. "You okay, Lottie?"
Napoleon knocked a couple more times before checking the doorknob, finding it unlocked and pressing the door open.
It smelled funny. Not funny-bad, but funny for a bathroom. Not that the bathroom had smelled bad, but it was different now. Almost sweet, but not in a tasty way, which was also kind of funny since he really liked sweet things.
It looked funny. Neon green liquid all over the tiles. A bottle that was apparently its source.
Lota slouched against the wall across from the toilet, one of the tooth glasses set to her right, one of the hotel blankets wrapped around her shoulders, one of the books she'd brought on the trip in her lap.
"Lottie, are you okay?"
Napoleon stepped carefully, avoiding as much of the liquid as he could manage. He squatted down to shake her arm—"Hey, Lottie."—and fell back onto his rear end as she slumped off to the side.
Napoleon shifted onto his knees and scooched closer to his sister. "Lottie?"
Her eyelids twitched and eventually lifted just enough for slits of white to show through. Her mouth moved, but the mumble was too slurred for any words to be distinguishable.
He shook her elbow and leaned in. Maybe she was in a deep sleep, still waking up, having trouble waking up—"Lottie, wake up. Are you okay, Lottie? Lottie?"
Her eyes slipped shut again and more incoherent things tumbled out, her book sliding from her lap as she fell the rest of the way to lie on her side.
"Mom! Dad!"
Present
New York
Illya plopped himself onto the examination table, crossing his arms and legs to ensure his sentiments about medical attention were adequately reflected in his posture.
"So I have Dr. Patel's notes from when you talked with him overnight," Dr. Jimenez began. "I'm seeing fever, dizziness, nausea, perhaps some confusion—anything I should tack on?"
Probably yes, but Dr. Egret would be disappointed if he admitted as much. "No."
"Can you give me some idea of when this all started?"
Illya briefly considered starting with the day he was born, but the unfortunate reality was that sarcasm seldom sped along social interactions, and Dr. Egret wanted him to make this as short as possible. "Late yesterday morning, I believe."
"Let's get an update on your temperature, shall we?" She stood to retrieve the thermometer from by the exam table and placed it under Illya's tongue, eventually reporting, "One-oh-two on the nose. About the same as yesterday."
Illya nodded politely at this statement of the obvious.
"Have you eaten yet today?"
"I had an orange and some oatmeal."
"Kept it down?"
Illya figured that puking the meal onto the floor wasn't quite what she meant by 'down', but he also figured that Dr. Egret wouldn't want him drawing more concern than necessary, so he nodded. "Thus far I have successfully curtailed their reappearance."
"Still nauseous, then?"
"A bit. Not so much as yesterday afternoon."
"Dizzy?"
"Yes."
Jimenez hummed and went about checking his eyes, nose, throat, ears, blood pressure, and heartbeat. "Not bad, all things considered. Blood pressure is normal, which is a little higher than your normal, but nothing to worry about." She sat down again on the wheeled stool. Thought a moment. "I don't like that temp, though. Came on fast?"
He was reasonably certain that Dr. Egret would prefer if he didn't up and die from some kind of hyperthermia, so he shrugged and admitted, "I felt a bit odd so I took my temperature before going to bed. It was normal then."
She shook her head and said again, "I don't like that temp."
And Dr. Egret wouldn't like if he was drawn away from his computer for several days, so he mustered up as much wittiness as he could manage, since a sense of humor seemed to make people think he didn't feel like his brain had somehow turned into a pufferfish that was expanding and expanding and expanding—"I, too, have little fondness for it, but will you let me leave if I promise to give it a good talking-to?"
The doctor chuckled. "I'll let you leave if you promise to go straight home, do nothing more strenuous than walk around your apartment, and call in right away if your temperature gets worse or doesn't start going down by tomorrow."
"You have my word."
Punto Viejo
Delgado tossed down the pen he'd been using to mark off key locations on the floorplan of the museum. "We have done enough for the day, have we not? I believe it is time now to think of dinner."
"I'd rather eat some dinner," Napoleon commented, putting down his own pen, "but you're welcome to just think of it."
"Perhaps a meal with the lady who found you so charming this morning."
Napoleon recalled the morning and the only two interactions with females that had occurred in that time frame. He guessed, "The bus driver?"
"My niece, Mr. Solo."
"Another one?" At Delgado's disappointed expression, he said, "Well, the one from whom we picked up your bag didn't seem especially charmed by me."
"I beg to differ, Mr. Solo. Besides, would you deny a man the pleasure of sharing a meal with his family?"
"If you play your cards right, Mr. Delgado, you'll be released to your own custody soon enough, and then you can go ham on the meal-sharing."
"But why not now? We all need to eat, sir. Why not allow the three of us to address that necessity together?"
Napoleon shrugged and moved from the small table to sit on his bed. He picked up the hotel phone on the nightstand between the pair of queen mattresses. "Okay, what's her number?"
Delgado rose and came to sit the edge of his own bed. "With all due respect, I would prefer to invite her myself."
"You will, once I'm sure you aren't trying to pull a fast one on me. Number." He poised his fingers over the keypad and, once Delgado had finished looking deeply wounded, entered the digits rattled off to him. Napoleon hit the speakerphone button, placed the receiver back in the cradle, and listened as del Valle answered the call. He motioned to Delgado to go ahead and make the invite.
Delgado went on in Spanish, making a more-or-less standard invitation until del Valle protested that the suggested destination was too expensive. "Don't worry yourself, my dear," Delgado assured her. "Mr. Solo insists." He glanced at Napoleon to check whether the American had picked up this part of the conversation and grinned when he observed the poorly-concealed grimace.
Napoleon made a skyward swirling motion with his finger—wrap it up, pal—and Delgado finished confirming the plans and ended the call.
"I take it we'll need a reservation," Napoleon remarked dryly.
"Only if we prefer not to look like peasants as we dejectedly tread back to the street. I leave that decision to you."
He sighed. Not in mourning over his wallet (after all, this would be going on his expense report), but over the piercing glares his poor self would undoubtedly be favored with (after all, this would be going on his expense report).
"Number," he said again and made the reservation for the time Delgado had specified to his niece, and only needed to insist a little bit to get it, thanks to the warmth Delgado had until-now erroneously claimed Mexicans felt toward foreigners putting in a sincere effort to speak the language. Once he hung up, he told Delgado, "Restrict your fluid intake."
"Beg pardon?"
"If I have to tail you to the little boys' room more than once, it's going to start looking real shady real fast, and we aren't supposed to be shady until after supper."
"I shall be the very definition of bladder control, sir."
New York
Home again, and not a minute too soon. He was sweating just from the walk from the office to the apartment, irritable from April's insistence on escorting him to the front door, and just generally feeling bad in many, many ways.
At least now he could sleep.
He made a quick stop in the kitchen to prepare the water bottle that Napoleon expected him to keep at the ready, then headed to the bedroom and stopped half a step into the room.
The bed didn't deserve the scowl that flew onto his face. The pillow would glare at him as he tried to get to sleep. The sheets would alternately comfort and mock him with the reminder that his usual bedmate was not present.
He'd just have to get over it, he reminded himself with a mental slap to the face, going to retrieve his pajamas from the nightstand drawer. Hesitating at the light blue material just visible within the half-opened thing. Shutting the drawer and grabbing Napoleon's spare pair from his dresser.
They were looser than his own set. Not that he slept in anything even remotely approaching a skinsuit, but the American had a few inches on him, both vertically and horizontally.
The satiny finish of his own set and the coolness that went with that material was markedly different from the soft, warm cotton of the sleeveless shirt and the linen of the trousers that he had to turn up at the cuffs more times than he'd have liked to admit.
Warm. Comfortable. It almost felt like an embrace from their rightful wearer, though a real embrace would be much nicer, although a real embrace would hinder his pre-sleep calisthenics. (He assumed Jimenez would approve, as keeping to his regular routine would be less strenuous than forcing himself to get straight into bed without carrying out the job.)
Jumping jacks. The soft up-and down of clothing felt like sighs on his skin.
Sit-ups. The folding-unfolding of cloth were almost fingers grazing over his middle.
Squats. The smoothing of linen around his thighs was an open-palmed hand—
"Nyet, nyet!" He took a quick intermission to remind himself in no uncertain terms that this was not a good line of thinking and he should stop before he forced himself into needing a cold shower, since that wasn't part of his pre-sleep ritual, and that would mean he'd have to do the calisthenics all over again, and he wasn't sure he'd be up to repeating such a non-strenuous activity.
Well, cold shower now, or he could wait until his was in bed and try that other thing that Napoleon had both embarrassedly and embarrassingly explained to him—
"Stop, stop, stop," he growled at himself in Ukrainian, then finished his calisthenics and climbed into bed.
After a second of thought, he reached over to the alarm clock radio on the nightstand and turned it on, to one of those stations Napoleon liked. Perhaps Bing and Ella and Louis and Patsy would help lull him into sleep faster than he'd managed last night.
Bzzzz… bzzzz… bzzzz…
Of course someone was calling him. He grabbed for his communicator.
Bzzzz… bzzzz…
Okay, not the communicator. He tossed the communicator onto the nightstand and reached for his cellphone.
Bzzzz…
It was from 'E'.
Dr. Egret.
He sighed and briefly considered not answering, but getting rest hardly seemed an adequate justification for disappointing her.
"Hello."
"How did the appointment go?"
"Well enough that I was allowed to return home. Poorly enough that I am not expected into work for several days, except in the form of a return to Medical should the fever worsen."
"Excellent. You can do some work for me, then. Well, not work, really. I think you'll have fun, Illya."
"You are entitled to an opinion."
"What do you know about air traffic control, Illya?"
Illya repressed a sigh. He was hardly in the mood for a guessing game. "What would you like for me to know about air traffic control, Doctor?"
"Is there some brilliant way you can access it from the comfort of your own home?"
Several, of course, to varying degrees of brilliance. Before he shared any of this with her, though, he still wanted to know, "To what end?"
"Nothing devious, just to detour a few flights—they can even be of your choosing. Would that be possible?"
"The choosing or the detouring?"
"Both."
"Yes."
"And do you have any ideas on how to make it happen?"
"Yes."
"Then pick three flights, tell me their flight numbers, and redirect them wherever you like."
Illya hesitated. "You will not harm anyone in this exercise?"
"Nobody gets hurt unless you do something unnecessarily untoward to accomplish your task. No, Illya, I'm not going to harm anyone. We're still getting acquainted. You don't know me well enough to willingly do anything too damaging to your moral compass."
Illya processed this for a moment, almost getting stuck on the concept of his having a moral compass before settling on the more concerning matter of her having authority over him. "Am I being mind-controlled?"
"If I were controlling your mind, would you be questioning my orders?"
"If you weren't controlling my mind or applying other means of duress, would I have lied to Slate, Dancer, Solo, and more than one U.N.C.L.E. doctor?"
Egret sighed. "Let's call it… mind-opened."
Illya drew the phone away from his ear to look at it, then returned it and wasn't nearly as sarcastic as he wished he were as he asked, "Did you lobotomize me when I wasn't paying attention?"
Egret laughed. "No, Illya, I wouldn't do that to you."
He frowned at her amusement. How was he supposed to know what she would and wouldn't do to him? "A relief, indeed. I shall contact you should I have questions."
Punto Viejo
He needed to find an angle.
He, the King of Diamonds, had been granted practically free access to a museum (all he had to do was make it 'look' like he was breaking in), and he still didn't have a way of making it work out for him.
Meanwhile, Solo chatted up Mónica, flirting just enough that Delgado could tease the American about his 'roommate' but not enough that his expression of shock was sincere.
In fact, he intended to keep all of his jabs light and brief, since this leisurely dining experience was the perfect opportunity for him to contemplate how to work the situation to his advantage. While the U.N.C.L.E. agent was distracted by his niece, he mused and thought and contemplated and occasionally used his phone under the table to aid in those processes.
Between the entrée and the dessert, he settled on his preferred target as well as a couple of alternatives. It was a shame that he'd had to miss out on so much quality time with his niece, but he made the most of the dessert and promised as they parted that he would see her again soon.
New York
Illya had nothing against Sweden. In fact, he found it more admirable than many other internationally recognized states, despite it being the most depressed of the Scandinavian countries when viewed from a map.
Iceland had the pride of being its own island.
Denmark merrily dotted the Baltic and North Seas with its archipelago.
Norway resolutely held together the sharers of its borders and still found time to nod a polite acknowledgement to Britain in the west.
Sweden… well, the poor thing was perpetually at risk of nosediving into the Baltic, its self-destructive droop barely mitigated by the efforts of its neighbors.
Still, he could hardly fault Sweden for every historical and geographical mishap, and now he was going to add to its misfortune by messing with its air traffic.
And he'd probably enjoy doing so. Shouldn't, both on the 'doing' and the 'enjoying' front, but he had already outlined his plan of action and was on to browsing for potential victims to be detoured.
Illya bookmarked a couple of webpages and grabbed his phone.
Me: Are you available for a few questions?
The responding text came almost instantaneously. E: Of course, Illya. What do you need to know?
He took a moment to suppress the bile that automatically rose at her solicitous reply, before responding in kind. Me: When do you want your flights to be redirected?
E: OUR flights, Illya. As soon as possible.
Me: I appreciate your efforts to cement my being part of the team.
The sarcasm probably didn't drip through as caustically as he'd have liked, but effectuating that wish would have required a phone call rather than a text conversation, and that was just not going to happen when he had any control over the matter.
E: Other questions?
Me: Why are you so fixated on me that you have clung to my proverbial coattails like a demonic barnacle since Oxford?
The reply was less than instantaneous this time. E: Do you really have to ask that?
Me: It is not vital to my continued existence but I would like to know.
E: I meant… do you really not know?
Me: Given the number of willing minions of extensive capabilities that you already have at your disposal, I do not understand why you have expended the efforts you have to drag me down with them.
E: You underestimate yourself, Illya. But now that you are with me, and now that I know what you need, I will make sure you grow to understand your value.
Illya frowned at the screen. Considered making that the end of their text string for the time being.
Then he reconsidered. While he somehow didn't seem able to expose Egret's presence to the appropriate authorities just now, he was hopeful that this situation wouldn't be permanent. Perhaps it would be wise to keep her talking, as it were.
Me: What do I need?
E: You need to understand our cause. And you need to be taken care of.
Me: I thought you were not planning to kill me for the foreseeable future.
E: Not like that, Illya—never like that!
E: …well, never say never, but as I told you before, you're too useful to be killed.
E: You weren't happy when I knew you in England. My staff has observed that you seem happier now. Now, that you've been looked after by Solo, etc.
E: You need to be cared for, Illya.
No number of exclamation points or capital letters could ever hope to adequately express the spike of anger that struck him, so he did not try. Me: I do not need to be looked after. I do not need to be cared for.
E: Did that upset you? It's nothing to be upset over… people like you need to be cultivated.
Another spike. Another long, searing stare at the screen.
People like you?
Cultivated?
Me: Are you likening me to a particularly fussy houseplant?
E: You're special, Illya. I realize that now. You need to be supported.
Me: If I could find an orchid to your taste, would you leave me alone?
E: You have a wonderful sense of humor, Illya. Don't wear it out.
Then, the true horror.
E: :)
Illya eyed the tiny image of a smiley face for far longer than he was quite certain was good for his health. Long enough that it seemed to expand and glow and multiply. Long enough that the possibility of ever being able to look away again—
Me: I will relay the flight numbers to you by midnight.
He stuffed the phone under the covers, wished he could wash his eyes out with lye without doing permanent damage, and decided it was a good thing that there were no strong corrosives in the residence to tempt him.
Punto Viejo
Refreshed from their dinner out, and freshly suspicious of Delgado's cellphone-using throughout the meal, Napoleon dove straight back into preparations as soon as they returned to the hotel.
"Fresh and clean from U.N.C.L.E. wardrobing," he announced, producing a pair of full-face masks for the job.
Delgado regarded the balaclavas disdainfully. "Now you are actively trying to insult me. You expect the King of Diamonds to pull off a heist looking like a rank-and-file robber, sir?"
Solo glanced down to the masks. "I know it's not up to par with your usual attire, but I thought between the stint in prison and the cross-global travel, you might not have had time to—"
"I assure you that I always have time to escape the embarrassment of sporting a mutilated beanie, Mr. Solo." Delgado turned to retrieve two stacks of clothes from the dresser drawer he had claimed for the duration of their stay. He handed one of them to Solo.
Napoleon tossed the disgraced beanies onto his bed and took the selection from Delgado. He flicked through the black trousers (his own), black button-down (not his own), black bandana (also not his own), and black hat (extraordinarily and most emphatically not his own). Took a glance at the fedora that topped the Mexican's stack. Held up the bowler hat atop his own. "A henchman hat? Really?"
"Don't fret, Mr. Solo. You are adequately hench for our purposes." He set to demonstrating the top two articles, tying his bandana around the lower half of his face and donning the fedora, set forward a bit.
"Will that stay on while we're making like cliff-divers in a small way?"
"I never lose my hat. You can think of me as the Indiana Jones of jewel theft." Delgado pondered a moment. "So… Indiana Jones."
"Sinaloa Jones," Napoleon suggested, recalling Delgado's home state from the file on the man.
"Which would make you—"
"If you say 'Bajo Redondo', this bowler hat will be put to a much better use than sitting on my head, buddy." Delgado chuckled, and Solo went on, "How'd you even manage to cobble these get-ups together? My understanding was that you were pretty much shipped directly from Australian prison to here, under police escort."
"Ah, but I did have access to airport shops." He tipped his fedora. "Duty-free, my friend."
New York
Illya's glasses caught on his forehead, making way for his eyes to be rubbed by the fingers of his right hand.
'Crazy…'
The heel of one palm found a resting place over one eye as the other shifted to glance at the bedside radio. Was it mocking him?
'I'm crazy for feeling so lonely…'
Yes, it was definitely mocking him.
'I'm crazy… crazy for feeling so blue…'
No, dammit, he wasn't feeling blue. Egret's task was distracting him from the blues and Patsy seemed determined to shove him back into them, and one of them had to go so he turned off the radio and resumed planning a very bad day for roughly three hundred predominantly Swedish travelers.
Punto Viejo
"Kuryakin."
"Solo." Napoleon leaned back against the veranda railing, already smiling from Illya's curt greeting. "How are you doing, horobchyk?"
"Oh. Napoleon."
"Yes. Napoleon." He smiled a little less at the obvious lack of anything even vaguely reminiscent of enthusiasm. Not that Kuryakin ever sounded especially warm and friendly, but a delivery as flat as this did not bode well for the fellow's health status. "How's the fever?"
"Quite well, thank you."
"Still have one, then?"
"One-oh-one."
"You've been drinking plenty of water?"
"Yes."
"Taking your medication?"
"Yes."
"Resting enough?"
"Yes."
"What did you do today?"
"Answer a lot of questions."
He bit back a sigh at the tart response: the words weren't out of character, but the tone was a bit snider than usual. Given the Russian was sick and missing work and just generally thrown out of his routine, Napoleon decided not to take the snippiness personally. "I'm open to chatting about whatever you want, chou."
"I don't want to talk."
"Any particular reason?"
"We talked just this morning. It has not been even a day since last we spoke. Can't you give me a chance to miss you?"
Napoleon's hand tensed on the railing. Now that he couldn't help but take a little personally. Was he being too clingy? Wasn't a good boyfriend supposed to check in on his ill significant other?
"I… that was not very kind of me. Napoleon, I do... miss you. It… I am not feeling well and I miss you and—oh, Napoleon, this is not going very well at all."
He let out a breath at the semi-apology. "It's okay, Illya."
"Not really, no. Did—I—no."
Caught his breath again. "Illya, what's wrong?"
"Did… you always say it like that?"
"Say what like what, horobchyk?"
"Nothing, Napoleon."
"Illya, chou, you're starting to scare me."
"It is inappropriate for me to distract you from your work in this way. I am fine, Napoleon. We will talk again soon and I will try to be better company."
"If it's not soon enough, you'll take care of yourself, right? Drink enough and sleep enough and call someone if you need to, right?"
"Yes, Napoleon, I promise."
"I'll hold you to that. I love you."
"Yes. Good night."
New York
'Worry… why do I let myself worry? Wonderin' what in the world did I do?'
Illya propped his chin up on one hand, propped the connected elbow on one cross-legged knee, and wondered what in the world had possessed him to seek out Patsy Cline's lament on his laptop after having so wisely cut her off on the radio earlier.
Perhaps it was that he missed Napoleon. Perhaps that, despite his declarations of trust, he was still anxious about the man meeting someone he liked better.
Or perhaps it was that he had done all he could in terms of preparation and had only to disclose the flight numbers to Dr. Egret before he actually did something that would actually have an effect in the real world.
Well, not really. Nothing would really be put awry for another five hours, when the first plane was due to be directed away from Örnsköldsvik Airport, but telling Egret about that somehow seemed like the official starting point for the event.
'I'm crazy for cryin', and crazy for tryin', and I'm crazy for lovin' you…'
Illya clicked out of the audio file and just stared at the top of the screen, at the sliding bit of plastic he used to cover the embedded camera. Eventually he slid it open, opened a recording program, and turned on the camera.
He didn't hit the record button, just stared at the lens for a moment before looking down to the backwards image of himself in the program window. They were right: he did look pale and flushed. His hair was a mess, not helped by the glasses haphazardly pushing his fringe back. His eyes were red; not from crying, but from rubbing at his sleep-deprived eyeballs.
He glanced up at the lens again, briefly, then attempted a smile, and good god, did his smile always make it look like he was suffering from indigestion while sticking his fingers into an electrical socket? He'd seen robots manage more convincing expressions of happiness although, to be fair, he wasn't smiling because he was happy. He wasn't even sure why he was smiling.
Perhaps it was a pathetic means of wasting time before sending Egret the numbers. Perhaps it was because he wanted to believe all the nice things Napoleon said about him.
About his brilliant smile. Indigestion.
About his silky hair. Mildewed straw.
About his hypnotic gaze. Hollow and dead.
About his lovely lips. Chapped and cracking. He should probably drink more of that water.
Illya exited the program, shut off the camera, slid the plastic shut, and texted the three targeted flight numbers along with half a dozen backups.
Punto Viejo
Solo stabbed the spike into the ground, stomped on it a couple of times to make sure it was really in there, then leaned over to press the button that prompted several smaller spikes to jut out perpendicular to the original. Delgado started walking the rope over to the window, tracing from the spike in the dirt to their point of entry, and Solo followed. Each took one side of the exterior frame, conveniently stair-like enough to make a welcoming climb, but narrow enough to warrant some caution as they stuck close to the outer wall of the museum.
Once at the top, Delgado held onto the top of the window frame and sidestepped much more warily across the much more narrow wooden beams separating panels of stained glass. He stuck one side of the two-sided suction cup to the bottom of one panel, then carefully lifted until that part of the window was all the way open and held in that position by the other side of the suction cup.
At Delgado's quick hand gesture, Solo joined him at the center of the window and draped a protective cloth over the ledge before clamping a U-shaped metal trough to the beam, intended to protect both the rope and the window from damage. Delgado positioned the rope through the trough, then dropped the rest of the loop down to the interior floor.
Delgado nodded toward the floor. After you.
Solo nodded toward the floor. As if I'm letting you out of my sight in the vicinity of jewel collections more than absolutely necessary.
Delgado's eyes shifted skyward briefly, then he went ahead with his descent, using the rope and the wooden parts of the window to walk himself down. Solo followed suit, thinking it was an appropriate turn of phrase given their rather formal attire.
On ground again, Delgado stayed close to their landing place while Solo circled around the perimeter of the room, using a thin telescoping rod to reach up and place still photos over the lenses of the security cameras. He'd taken the photos during the day, whenever there were no people in each camera's view, and re-shaded them to make them more closely resemble the lighting during the museum's off hours.
Solo gave the thumbs-up for this room and, as soon as Delgado came to disarm the security pad by the doorway, moved into the next room to do his trick with the cameras again, afterward standing by the clock display. Taking his cue, Delgado joined him, disarmed the next room's security pad, and set to work on the bolts fastening the glass dome to the wooden base, removing one metal rod at a time.
All bolts set on the ground, Solo and Delgado gingerly lifted the glass over the clocks and placed it down by the display. Solo removed the hard-shelled backpack from his shoulders and unzipped it to allow Delgado to transfer the five clocks into the case.
Targets acquired, they left the way they came in. The still photos remained on the camera lenses in anticipation of their impending return, but they took the rope, clamp, and cloth with them to make their overconfidence less obvious in the event that Marton had one of his goons monitoring the operation.
New York
Done.
Well, not yet, but it would be as soon as the flights got close enough to Örnsköldsvik. Or Bremen, Germany, in the event that they started catching on in Sweden and somehow managed to make corrections before he was finished with them. Then anywhere from one hundred and five to three hundred and forty-three mostly-Germans would be ticked off instead of anywhere from fifty to three hundred and two mostly-Swedes.
He looked to the clock in the corner of the screen. Time for the orange medicine again. Egret had told him to take one of them every day at noon, and another every night at midnight. She either didn't know that he was used to turning in well before midnight, or she was using this as a subtle way of reinforcing her control over him.
It was equally annoying regardless of the motivation, but he took the bottle of pills and the bottle of water from the nightstand and popped one of the orange things. Wasn't sure why he felt so compelled to take it, but it was probably a result of taking the orange. He figured it was something like attempting to slake one's thirst with saltwater.
He blinked. Was that an appropriate metaphor? It wasn't like he wanted more and more of the orange. Needed it more and more. Would that come later? Would he build up a dependency, or would it ratchet his fever into hyperthermia and kill him first?
Thinking of fevers now, Illya put a hand to his forehead and wondered if he should check his temperature again.
No, he had a temperature.
Everything had a temperature.
Why did that sound familiar?
Illya looked at the bottle of orange in his lap. The bottle of water in his hand. Had he taken the orange yet? Yes—no? Yes. He put the bottles back on the nightstand, retrieved a notebook from his backpack, noted down that he had taken the midnight dose.
Squinted at the radio on the other nightstand. Hadn't he turned it on? Why wasn't it making any noise? He went to turn it back on, remembered that he'd turned it off before, and turned it off again. Then it seemed too quiet so he turned it on and why was he in Napoleon's pajamas?
Punto Viejo
"This is the stuff we're giving to Marton," Solo said, plunking the small bag on the table in the hotel room. "You can take some of them to replace the stuff in the clocks. And this is where you will put the aztenite," he concluded, placing a small box beside the bag.
Delgado reached into the crushed-velvet bag and started examining the pieces of malachite. "Are you dictating which piece to put in which clock, or are you leaving this to my professional judgement?"
"Your judgement, sir." Napoleon dragged his chair a little closer, folding his arms and watching closely as Delgado set to work. They maintained a quiet that Solo was perfectly fine with for several minutes before Delgado started chatting.
"Tell me, Mr. Solo, how did you meet your Uh Roommate?" At the half-hearted glare this garnered, Delgado raised his hands briefly before returning them to their task. "Your words, sir, not mine."
"Alright, fine, I have a boyfriend who doesn't like when I go around all willy-nilly telling people he's my boyfriend. Now those are my words." Napoleon turned his gaze back to the job at hand. "We met in college."
"There is no need for you to sound so—ah, what is the word?" He clucked his tongue and moved on when the word failed to leap to mind. "It is only that I know so little about you, so asking about your 'boyfriend who doesn't, etcetera, etcetera', is one of the few conversational inroads I have."
After a few more minutes of quiet productivity, Delgado commented, "He likes the tall, dark, and handsome type, I see."
Napoleon side-eyed the jewel thief.
"Well, if something unfortunate should happen to you, I wanted to let you know that I would be happy to provide consolation to his tastes."
Napoleon froze for a second, decided that this little gem was better ignored, and proceeded to ignore it.
Delgado clicked his tongue and shook his head. "Not even that, eh? How sexually explicit do my insinuations have to be to get you out of this funk of yours? What if I start describing in great detail all the possible manners of sod—"
Napoleon snatched the needle-nose pliers out of Delgado's hand and held them up to the tip of Delgado's less needle-like nose. "If a freewheeling element like you starts that kind of talk about a swear-to-god angel, I swear to god we're going to have a problem."
"Aha, there you are! Not your normal, delightful self, but at least you sound alive again." Delgado plucked the pliers from Solo's fingers and reapplied them to his tinkering. "Rest assured, Mr. Solo, I don't admire men as you do. Your angel is safe."
Napoleon finally managed a chuckle. "But if he heard me call him an angel, I wouldn't be."
"Ah, so that's why you are so—ah, that word…." At Napoleon's silence, Delgado glanced at him. At Napoleon's puzzled look, he handed over the first sample of aztenite and started fitting the replacement. "Whatever the word is, you are it and you are also homesick."
Napoleon dropped the azenite into the box. He followed up its soft plink with a dry: "I haven't been homesick since I was a five-year-old at a summer day-camp, Mr. Delgado."
"And yet you call your boyfriend every day whilst on assignment and have become so—ay, that word…." Delgado whistled briefly, ending rather shrilly as he beamed, "Ah, yes! Snippy."
"Snippy!"
"Yes. You, sir, are homesick and snippy."
"I—" Napoleon caught himself. Snapping about how he was neither homesick nor snippy would not be a good look. He exhaled quietly and supplied calmly, "I didn't mean to be snippy with you, Mr. Delgado. I… miss him. I apologize for taking it out on you."
"See? Homesick."
"I wouldn't say that."
"You miss your boyfriend—" A grunt of annoyance as the pliers briefly caught on something. "—with whom you live. Is missing him not the same as being homesick?"
Well, this sounded like it could get deeper than Napoleon cared to get right now, so he acknowledged this point, quickly following it up with, "And what of you, Mr. Delgado? Do you have anyone who gets you all homesick?"
Delgado chuckled. "My goodness, no, Mr. Solo. My home is wherever I am. I make no attachments."
"What about your lovely niece?"
"She is always in my heart. My family is always with me—" A grunt of triumph as he extracted the next fragment of aztenite. "—just as yours remains with you."
"I know," Napoleon agreed, taking the second genuine sample and handing over the fake in exchange. And that used to be enough for him, too.
Until Illya.
He loved his parents, of course, and Aunt Amy. He missed them and all, but somehow there wasn't this… homesickness for them. This deep longing that gnawed its way into his thoughts at every turn. He managed to keep it at bay whenever he needed to really concentrate, but it was never far off.
And it didn't help that he had to be away from the man here, in Mexico, where Lota—
"Why the sapphire necklace?" Napoleon asked abruptly.
Delgado paused in his work, briefly enough that the hesitation was almost imperceptible. "The cut was the most unique. Something so distinct will bring a greater profit."
"Would have," Solo corrected. He drew the sapphire-inlaid adornment from his breast pocket and Delgado's eyes briefly flicked in its direction. "Didn't we talk about this?"
"Why, yes, Mr. Solo, as a matter of fact we did."
"Didn't we agree that this would end in a cell Down Under?"
"Come, sir, you cannot expect a leopard to change his spots overnight. Surely you can appreciate that this leopard restrained himself to only one…." He trailed off as his peripheral vision caught Solo drawing a broach from his left trouser pocket. "Only two…." A ring from the right pocket. "Only…." A clattering as a few more pieces were placed onto the table. "Nobody is perfect, sir."
"You know we're bringing these back," Napoleon said, using hotel towels to wrap the jewelry for the return trip.
"But of course." At the ensuing silence, Delgado asked, "Aren't you going to remind me of my also being 'brought back'?"
"I have to think about it."
"Do you?" Delgado glanced at Solo, caught the American's resigned glare, and grinned as he finished with the second clock.
"You know I can't say you're definitely going back to prison. If I did, what would be your motivation for helping with the rest of the assignment?"
"Then you would be open to a bit of negotiation."
"Not about these being put back where they belong," Solo said with a gesture to the jewels, "but about your going back to Australia, yes."
"I am open to offers, Mr. Solo."
"If this—" Napoleon gestured expansively to the unauthorized pickings. "—is not repeated, I'm willing to write it off as a bit of entertainment for yourself, and that you had every intention of returning every item."
"I will not make another mistake, sir," Delgado pledged, and that was not especially reassuring but Solo didn't have much choice at the moment.
New York
Illya confused, irritated, and generally inconvenienced forty-six passengers and four crew, most of whom were Swedish.
Punto Viejo
In the wee morning hours, Solo and Delgado took another ride with García to visit Victor Marton, malachite samples tucked away in the drawstring knapsack the U.N.C.L.E. agent brought along. Marton accepted the samples, comparing them against the photos he had of the aztenite in the clocks, and smiled.
"Effective and efficient as always, Señor Delgado," Marton said, offering a hand that Delgado shook. "And you, Mr. Solo," he added, shaking Napoleon's hand as well, "I'm sure this has been a most valuable experience for you."
"It certainly has, sir," Napoleon grinned. "I'm learning a lot."
"Mr. Solo has been of great use to me," Delgado put in. "If all is to your satisfaction, monsieur…?"
"Ah, yes." Marton produced an envelope from his desk drawer and handed it over to Delgado. "As agreed, a new offshore account in your name, with an initial deposit of—well," he demurred, modestly gesturing to the documents he'd just handed over.
"Even more generous than agreed," Delgado beamed, taking a look at the papers within. "But I should know by now to expect no less generosity from you, sir. If I can be of service again to you, please never hesitate to reach out to me."
After another round of mutual admiration, García dutifully dropped them both back at the hotel and, once they were back in their room, Delgado heroically dropped the envelope into Solo's hands.
"It will be put to noble uses, no doubt," Delgado commented.
"'Fraid so," Napoleon returned solemnly.
"May I now take custody of myself?"
"Agents from the local office are watching the building, and they'll be joined by some Mexican authorities shortly. Once everyone's here, they'll give you your walking papers, so to speak. I have to get this back to HQ—" Napoleon held up the knapsack that now contained only the genuine aztenite and a few bits of stuffing. "—so I'll say goodbye now."
"Mr. Solo," Delgado said, shaking one of Napoleon's hands warmly with both of his own, "it was truly a pleasure to work with you."
"And you as well, Mr. Delgado. I hope I hear nothing but good things about you in the future."
"I will do my utmost to be the best." As Napoleon started to gather his things, the Mexican added, "Ah, and say hello to your home for me. I'm sure he has missed you."
Solo grinned, saluted, and set off.
Delgado grinned, waved, and hoped the young agent wouldn't get in too much trouble when the museum staff started taking a close look at their displays.
New York
Illya determined that it really wasn't fair to exclusively target Sweden, so he gave one hundred and five mostly-Germans a headache.
Ciudad Obregón International Airport, Mexico
Napoleon checked in for the first leg of his return trip to New York, a layover in Mexico City.
New York
Illya decided that Europe shouldn't have all the misfortune and texted Dr. Egret the number of a flight intended for Miami International Airport.
Benito Juárez International Airport, Mexico
Napoleon checked in for the second leg of his trip to New York, a layover in Miami.
New York
'I've never met you, yet never doubt, dear… I can't forget you; I've thought you out, dear…'
The crooning accompanied the sound of the alarm he'd set on his phone, for a few minutes before he had to get back to work, or not-work, as Egret had suggested, and when had he turned the radio back on?
'I know your profile and I know the way you kiss… just the things I miss, on a night like—'
"Do shut up," Illya all but growled at Mel Tormé, almost punching the radio in his enthusiasm to switch it off again. He let his head drop into his hands, felt the lack of fabric at his arms, and peered up.
Oh, right. He'd put on Napoleon's pajamas. Because he was a pitiful textbook case of codependency. And why had he turned off the radio when it was his only company?
He turned it back on.
'Isn't it romantic? Music in the night, a dream that can be—'
Oh, right. He turned it off again so Mel would stop rubbing it in his face, then set about to inconveniencing a hundred and eighty beachbound travelers.
American airspace
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Perez. I apologize for the interruption and the inconvenience, but I have been informed that we will not be able to land at Miami as planned."
The corners of Napoleon's mouth pulled down, and other passengers started to murmur.
"We will be landing instead at Orlando International Airport, and airline staff will be waiting to help accommodate your travel needs from there. We apologize sincerely for this happening, and we will be landing in Orlando in approximately thirty minutes. Thank you for your patience."
As the captain repeated the message in Spanish, Napoleon rose from his seat and walked toward the front of the plane until he reached the nearest flight attendant. "Excuse me—" He flicked a glance at her nametag. "—Tricia. I was wondering if there was any way I could find out why we are being redirected."
Tricia offered, "All I know is, Miami told us we weren't able to land with them."
"Might the pilot have more information?" Noting her reasonably concerned eyebrow-raise, he produced his card and, once she'd nodded at it, added, "You might imagine why I'd like to know these things."
"Wait here a minute, Mr. Solo."
"Napoleon, please," he said, flashing a smile.
"Of course, Napoleon. Just let me check in with the cockpit." Tricia left him for a few moments, talked on the phone to the cockpit, and motioned him over. "Here's Mr. Solo," she said into the phone, then handed it over to the man from U.N.C.L.E.
"Captain Perez?"
"Yes, Mr. Solo, hello. You wanted more information on our detour?"
"Whatever you could tell me would be much appreciated, Captain."
"Yes, yes… our radar and navigation started getting a little wonky as we were starting our approach to Miami. Naturally, that is of concern, so we asked Miami to advise us. They suggested briefly going farther out again, and the nav seemed okay again. Then we went back in and the nav went out again."
"I see," Napoleon murmured.
"We would rather not spend an indeterminate amount time circling Miami while we figured out the problem, and if there was other problems that we hadn't noticed along with it… so Miami suggested Orlando was about at the radius where we started experiencing problems. Orlando said they would accommodate us, so here we are."
"So it's strange, but you can't really identify why?"
"That about sums it up, Mr. Solo. We'll work out the why once we've got you folks safely on ground again, okay?"
"Sounds good, Captain. Thanks for the chat."
"Pleasure, sir."
The captain hung up, and Napoleon stayed by the phone as he put his communicator over his ear. "Open Channel D."
New York
Illya sighed as a ring came through his headphones again. Of course, this one Miami flight—this one flight detour that required him to vocalize—was the fussiest. How American.
He tapped back on the distortion application before offering with a slight drawl, "Tower."
"Hi, Miami, this is Napoleon Solo with the U.N.C.L.E. I'm calling to ask about a flight that's been redirected from you to Orlando." Solo rattled off a number.
A chill ran down Illya's spine, which was quite a refreshing change from the fever, and he returned after a reasonable pause, "Go ahead."
"Can you let me know any cause for this?"
Boy, could he ever, but Illya plowed on with his serviceable Southern accent. "Your navigation gets kinda funky when it approaches us, right?"
"Right."
"It de-funks when it don't approach, right?"
"Right."
"So far, no other flights are getting in a funk, so it seems a fluke with your systems interacting with the airspace in this area. To reduce the risk of collision, we'd rather you land where y'all don't have these problems."
"Right."
"That about do it for you, Mr. Solo?"
"Yes, that about does it for me, Mr.…?"
"Tormé."
"Mr. Tormé. No relation, I suppose?"
"Relation to what, Mr. Solo?"
"Never mind. Thank you."
The connection terminated and Illya shut off his microphone before releasing a long breath.
Napoleon. He was hurting Napoleon with this harmless task for Dr. Egret. Well, 'hurting' was a bit strong. This time.
This time.
What about next time?
Illya shook his head. There couldn't be a next time. He couldn't risk a next time. He wouldn't allow a next time. He almost flipped his laptop as his legs jolted, feeling the vibration of his communicator before he heard it.
"Kuryakin," he said, taking off his headphones and barely dropping Mr. Tormé's American inflections.
"Solo. Is this too soon?"
Illya took half a second to realize (or at least hope) that Napoleon was talking about his call yesterday rather than their recently terminated exchange. "You may call at your leisure, Napoleon. What greater thrill could an invalid have to occupy his hours?"
A chuckle, then, "In that case, you're welcome. Sorry if I woke you up... you already sound pretty awake, though."
He should tell Napoleon. About Egret. Tell him. Egret. Tell. Tell. Tell.
Dammit, why wasn't he telling?
"Well… I just wanted to hear your voice again. We don't have to talk long if you don't want to"
But he wanted to! He wanted very badly to talk at very much length at very loud volumes about very specific things but somehow that wasn't happening!
"I can't tell you when I'll be back, but things are going well so I'm optimistic. I'll see you soon. Maybe call you again sooner. 'Kay?"
"Yes—" no, it was not okay, he was not okay, this entire situation was most emphatically not okay, and he had to put an end to this-it before it-this put an end to something of importance "—of course. Goodbye, Napoleon."
Thanks for reading! :)