New York City; 1961

She was on her own in the brownstone hobbling around its hardwood and marble floors and hoping to god she didn't slip; she couldn't take another bruise on her already purple ribs and Napoleon would have a fit if her found her slumped against a door frame again.

So she didn't take enforced bed rest well? Sue her.

Her beloved husband was no better when the agency forced him to take two days recovery but she was supposed to just lie around for a month? Unlikely. They'd had many 'discussions' about the fact that she refused to stay in bed all day and so far she as doing quite well at sneaking back just as his key slides into the lock on their front door – he seemed happier when he found her under covers instead of slumped on the floor.

Through she did understand his worry slightly, apparently she'd been in a right state by the time he'd managed to rescue her from the hands of a former Nazi's butcherer. Honestly? She didn't remember much about it.

The CIA were, apparently, still trying to figure out how a wanted Nazi had managed to get into the U.S. never mind free to wander the streets of New York. She'd spotted him completely by accident one afternoon and soon she and Napoleon were tracking him down. They hadn't planned on splitting up but one thing led to another and then he was on the other side of a compound and she as being knocked out and stuffed into the back of a car.

Of course she remembered being dragged into the dark and dingy room and then there was the usual beating which likely resulted in the black eye she'd sported up until a few days ago but…well…she'd passed out pretty soon after that and to be frank, she was slightly ashamed of how long she'd been able to maintain consciousness.

Napoleon had found her 28 hours later with a full CIA team at his back and hadn't really spoken about it since.

The only reason she knew how many ribs had been broken was due to a sneaky peek at the mission file when Napoleon had been fast asleep one night. She'd curled up with a steaming mug of tea and spent the whole night reading through it. The list of her injuries still didn't seem quite real though she could feel each and every one with every step.

The mere thought of Napoleon finding her strung up by her wrists and by the sounds of it, completely unrecognisable made her want to vomit.

Walking was still a chore and she was grateful for the amount of furniture they owned that she could hold onto while dragging herself around but not being able to smile was the worst; her lip was still bust and the bruise adorning her jaw was so tender she couldn't sleep on her left side.

There was one good thing to come of this though; the CIA were happy to keep Napoleon here, in New York, until she was fit for duty again which meant they were spending more time together doing normal, domestic things than ever before.

She had to admit though, being forced to stay at home was giving her a taste for life outside of their jobs. Napoleon was doing a stellar job of providing a never-ending stream of mouth-watering meals and she knew the pounds would start to pile on soon, but, for the first time in God knows how many years, she wasn't calculating how many hours of running she'd have to undertake to shift it all, no, she was trying to get used to the idea of a fuller figure.

Curves had always been a part of her, but maybe their conversation all those months ago about waiting for the future was redundant. Maybe the future was now?

If she was going to be spending time here, why not have some company? Every glance in a reflective surface was a reminder of how dangerous her job was and with the CIA being seemingly understanding about keeping Napoleon close…

The thought was interrupted by the gentle ring of the doorbell. Frowning down the hall, she forced herself from the kitchen stool and her newspaper and painstakingly made her way to the front door.

"Whatever you're selling…" She began as she opened the door into the small entranceway and glass exterior door. "…I'm not interst-" She cut herself off as she finally aid attention to who was standing on the other side of the glass. "Waverly?"

"Hello, dear." She peered at him for a beat before hurriedly opening the door and welcoming him in. "Thank you." He smiled at her as she took his coat and hung it amongst their own on the porch's hooks.

"Waverly." She breathed his name again before pulling him into a hug and trying not to wince at the contact. "It's so good to see you."

"I'd say the same, dear." He replied as they separated. "But with those bruises and the tenderness in your ribs…I can't say you're looking as healthy as when we last met."

"I trust you read the report?" She asked, gesturing for him to follow her into the bright kitchen.

"And got the next flight out." He told her, taking her seat at the breakfast bar and glancing at the copy of The Times lying open on the worktop. "A taste of home?" He asked, nodding to the inky sheets.

"A comfort when one is under house arrest." She laughed, filling the kettle and setting it to heat before turning back to face him. "What are you doing here, Waverly?" She asked as his features changed ever so slightly into a far more pensive mask. "You hate America."

"Hate is a very strong word, dear Eva." He told her with a tight smile. "But, well I suppose you wouldn't be such a highly valued Agent if you weren't always sceptical." He sighed and closed the newspaper. "I need you back in London."

"We've only been here for seven months." She reminded him with a frown. "And I can't say I'm missing November in the rain." She turned to retrieved two mugs from the cupboard. "You're asking us to pack up our lives again so soon?"

"I'm afraid it's not up for discussion." Her shoulders slumped at his words and she set the mugs on the side. "And Mr Solo will not be required to join you."

"What are you saying?" She asked, her back still to him.

"I'm afraid that in light of recent events, our…partnership with the Americans must come to an end."

"What? Why?" She could feel her heartbeat quicken at his words. "You're the one who wanted a 'partnership' with the Americans!" She reminded him. "You've pushed for this; a collaboration between both sides of the Atlantic, for years!"

"I didn't ask you to marry him though, did I?"

"Nap-" She stopped as the electric kettle gurgled and knowing that he wouldn't be moved on this, focused instead on pouring the boiling water into the mugs.

"Of course you have to stay until you are fully recovered." He added as she set a mug down in front of him with a thud. "But then…" He trailed off as she gripped her own mug and stood as far from him as possible as she tried to digest the news. "Eva…you have to know I wouldn't do this unless I have to."

"When do I leave?" She asked, her voice dead as all plans for the future disintegrated before her eyes.

"A month." She nodded slowly. "Eva, I tried to stop this but…"

"I understand."

"You do?" He sounded surprised.

"Of course." She placed her mug beside her. "It's my job."

"Well yes but…"

"Does Napoleon know?" He shook his head. "The CIA?" He nodded once. "Of course...I take it it's up to me to break the news then?"

"We feel it would be better coming from you." She snorted at the idea. "If you would prefer, I can-"

"No." She stared at him. "I'll do it; he's my husband."

"Very well."

The house was silent as Napoleon returned from another long day at Langley. Dropping his keys into the small bowl they kept in the hall, he paused to listen out for any sounds of his wife scurrying back to bed after a day not listening to doctors' orders.

The fact that she thought he didn't know was cute and he was happy to let her believe she was fooling him as long as he never found her slumped on the cold floor ever again.

"Eves?" He called out as he stepped onto the staircase and headed for their bedroom. "How are you feeling tod-" His question was left unasked as he pushed open their bedroom door and stopped at the sight of his wife sat on their bed, folding clothes into a suitcase. "Eves?"

"My Commander came by today." She told him, her back still to him as she played with the sweater in her hands. "Wanted to see the war wounds for himself."

He didn't believe her. Not even slightly. It might have been the fact that her boss was not a man who left the comfort of London for a quick check-up or it could be the small matter of his still not knowing who exactly this guy was, but no, it was definitely the fact that she was packing a damned suitcase when she should be pretending to rest.

"What did he say?"

"That I looked awful."

"Sounds like a nice guy." He couldn't believe he was carrying on this nonsense conversation while still frozen in the doorway. "Didn't want to stay for dinner?"

She sighed and let the sweater fall from her hands.

"You know he couldn't."

"I still don't get why his identity is such a mystery." He said, taking a cautious step into the room. "You've met my boss."

"Maybe that isn't a good thing." She said, turning slightly. "Now I know too much about him." He frowned at her words. "I've met his wife, I know his habits; it's a poor show of security on your end."

"Eva…what's going on?"

"I'm leaving." He stalled again at her words. "Wav…I mean the Commander said I had a month but, I think it's better to do this now."

"You're leaving?" He echoed. "Why?"

"Apparently our partnership is over." He unfroze at the break in her voice and was on his knees before her in a heartbeat. "Apparently we can't work together anymore." He reached up to wipe away the tear rolling down her cheek. "Apparently, I have to leave you and…" She let out a sob.

"You're not going anywhere."

"As much as I love the idea of you fighting MI5 singlehandedly..." She gave him a watery smile. "…it's not going to happen; I have to go." She stood and moved to their wardrobes. "My flight is in the morning."

"You can't go." He stood, feeling his anger at her apparent lack of care.

"I have to."

"Dammit Eva; you're my wife!" He shocked himself by the ferociousness of his shout. "Do you really think I'm going to let you move to the other side of the world?!"

"Let me?" Her voice, by contrast, was very low as she stared into their wardrobes. "Let me?" She repeated, turning to him. "I didn't realise I needed your permission to do my damned job!"

"We're married!"

"I don't remember signing away my free will when I signed the marriage certificate!" She snarled and he met her glare. "My job comes first." She told him lowly. "Just like yours comes first to you."

"My god!" He cried. "Are you hearing yourself?! We've spent the last how many years trying to be together and now you're just going to run home to England?"

"Yes, I am." He took a step back at her venomous tone as she rounded on him, all thoughts of packing clearly forgotten. "Because a long time ago I pledged my life to my country and I can't believe I let myself forget about it for…for…"

"For us." He finished for her. "We both forgot."

"Don't kid yourself." She sneered. "If you hadn't been caught you wouldn't be here; your loyalty to your country extends only until your sentence is commuted."

Silence fell between them as her words hung in the air; suffocating them.

"I can't believe you still think so little of me." He whispered, as her words hit every target and let him feeling bereft even though she was only arm's length away.

"Nap-" He held his hand up to stop her from continuing.

"Don't." He walked from the room. "Don't waste your breath."

She'd tossed and turned for the past two hours but no matter what she did, her eyes were either on her case; stuffed into the corner of the room, or were squeezed shut to block out all recollections of their fight.

She knew he was still awake too; the faint light from the living room was spilling onto the upstairs landing and she could occasionally hear him moving around.

Where those words of hatred had come from, she didn't know; it wasn't at all how she felt and she wanted nothing more than to rewind and handle the conversation properly. She kept telling herself that it was his fault; that he'd come home early and hadn't given her enough time to figure out how to approach the subject.

But she knew it was all lies. It was her fault and hers alone.

Sliding from beneath the covers with a sigh, she grabbed her robe as she left the room and padded down the staircase.

He was staring straight ahead at their unlit fireplace and from her spot behind the sofa, she could just make out a glass of whiskey in one hand and while the other was balled into a fist. She stepped further into the room and watched him as she leant against the squared archway.

"You should get some sleep." He lifted the glass to his lips as she spoke. "You have work tomorrow."

"I'm taking the day."

"Being hungover isn't a good enough reason to call in sick."

"I'm not." He leant forward and placed the glass onto the coffee table as his other hand clenched and unclenched in a rhythmic pattern – as though he were trying to work out at least some of the tension in the house. "I've had it booked for a week." She frowned at this and stepped around the sofa and into his line of vision. "Was planning on getting you out of this house and spending some time together." He scoffed at the notion and his hand finally lay flat on the arm of the sofa. "Guess I'll just catch up on my sleep now."

"Napoleon." She sighed, his name a heartbroken whisper on her lips. "Napoleon I'm so sorry."

"I know." He admitted as she fell onto the other end of the sofa. "But it still hurt."

"I'm such a fool!" She whined, her head falling into her hands. "I guess I just thought it would be easier if we parted-"

"On sour terms?" He finished for her, turning his head to her. "So we couldn't miss each other?"

"It sounds stupid when you say it in that voice."

"It is stupid." He insisted and she felt his hands on her wrists, pulling them from her face. "But I get it."

"You do?"

"If it were anyone else in any other line of work…" He trailed off with a half-smile. "I guess it was too good to be true." He sighed, looking around at the house. "Come here." A gentle tug on her wrist had her clambering from her seat and into his lap; the position so familiar and comforting she was instantly relaxed.

"I'm sor-"

"I know."

"No…" She looked up at him. "…not just about that but…" She reached into her pocket and pressed the small card box from which she took a pill every morning, onto his chest. "…I'm sorry we never got to try." He picked up the box from its place against his chest and stared at it.

"You were-"

"Yeah." She let her head fall back against his chest. "I was."

His hand moved steadily up-and-down the satin back of her robe as they fell into a comfortable silence; so different to the one that had consumed them earlier. The box had been placed on the arm of the sofa behind her, though she was acutely aware that his eyes were still on it as his hand brushed it on each downward rub.

"Have you taken todays'?"

"Hmm?" She peered up at him. "No." The box landed in her lap with a gentle thud.

"Take it."

"What are you-"

"I'm not saying goodbye to you with a chaste kiss on the doorstep." He told her as she opened the box with an eye-roll. "Not until you're exhausted enough to sleep all the way to London."

"You're incorrigible."

"You love it."

"Yes…" She lifted her head to press a kiss to the underside of his jaw. "…I do."