A/N: I always reread previous chapters so I can make some effort toward having continuity—and boy, was #3 rough going. Thanks for coming along to the last chapter in spite of that train wreck, and hopefully this one's a bit better. Or, at least, not worse, :)
Chapter warnings: Brief reference to suicide; minor self-inflicted injury
Act IV: Mr. The Ripper lends a hand
Reading
8:05 a.m.
"Gee, Max, is the hardware really necessary?"
"There's five of you and one of me." Max thought for a moment as he herded the group along at gunpoint, the gun being once again hidden under his coat to avoid alarming the university students they occasionally passed. "Well, there'll be Smitty, too, but he'll be up front driving while I sit with you guys. Anyway, it's easier to keep a bunch of people in line when you're the one with the little friend, if you get my drift."
Napoleon nodded. It seemed there was a possibility that Max didn't realize he and Mark were also armed.
"I mean, I don't really think you kids are dangerous, and I'm sure you'd come along real nice since all we're doing is figuring out the situation here, but Miss R ain't as trusting as I am, and she's the boss, see?"
Solo hummed in thought. "Not really. If she thinks we're so dangerous, why didn't you call in the bobbies?"
Max chuckled. "Hell, Francis, now I know you're a decent type—we'll get everything all square with you and Ilia real quick. I can't call the cops 'cause I was overseeing a payment Miss R wanted to make to a government agency. Payoff sorta thing, I mean."
"Why only Francis and Ilia?" Mark demanded. "Why can't the rest of us get squared real quick?"
"You might, too," Max responded patiently, "but the way I see it, these two—" A quick gesture between Cynthia and Arthur. "—are either acting on behalf of the government office, or they were posing as officials and were trying to steal from Miss R. So they're either okay or in for some trouble." He nodded to Mark. "You, I don't know about. Were you with these two or with Francis?"
Recognizing that any hesitation might seem suspicious, Mark hoped his gut made the right decision as he said, "I'm with these two… or, rather, they're with me. Whoever is gonna do the questioning can direct all inquiries to me. These two don't know what they're into."
Arthur pulled a bit of a face but nodded at Mark's assertion, as their current predicament was certainly a bit beyond what he'd anticipated. Cynthia, on the other hand: "Hey!"
"Save it, missy."
"Aw, go easy on the kid," Max said. "Live and learn."
"That is indeed something to aspire to," Illya muttered at Napoleon, who chuckled at the dire intonation as they approached a parking lot.
"Here's our ride." Max nodded them toward a white van with black lettering ("Canary Mining, Ltd.") and a cartoonish black canary perched in the C. "Hi, Smitty," he called to the square-jawed man who emerged from the front of the vehicle to open the back doors for their guests. Smitty produced a plastic bin from the rear and Max said, "You guys can just put your cellphones in there, and any other electronic things you got on you."
As the devices were dropped into the container, Max added, "Maybe you should just put all your metal stuff—there's detectors in the building. Take your coats off. You can hold onto those, and you'll get all your stuff back when Miss R gives the OK."
The U.N.C.L.E. communicators joined the other electronics in the tub: the communicators looked like normal cellular headsets unless a knowledgeable technician took them apart, and that generally didn't happen unless one was suspected of being an agent, which didn't seem to be a concern just yet, seeing as they hadn't been searched for weapons—
"Frisk 'em?" Smitty asked.
"They're clean," Max promised as he cast a quick eye over the now-coatless group, and Napoleon and Mark shared a look but otherwise refrained from reacting. They decided the man was:
One, slightly stupid;
Two, incredibly trusting;
Or three, something less than passionate about his work. Based on their in-flight exchange, Solo was banking on the last option being a factor in this fortunate non-frisking event, and he underlined his mental note to watch for an opportunity to get Max to help them escape if they couldn't manage the task on their own in short order.
Once Smitty popped the lid onto the container and headed back to the front, Max motioned for them to get it. "Sit anywhere but leave one of the back seats for me. Buckle up."
8:05 a.m.
"Did you drive here?"
"Yes—"
"Where'd you park?"
"Lot 2—"
"We'll take yours."
"Could you tell me who the hell you are first?"
April didn't look up from her phone and, once she'd found Car Park 2 on the map she'd pulled up, started heading in that direction as she compromised, "I'll fill you in on the move." She finally looked at him very briefly as he hurried to keep up. "Mr. Hart, I presume?"
"Yes. We're going to follow them, right? You sure it's not better to try and catch up on foot?"
"We can't risk a confrontation here," April denied, speeding up to a jog as she split her attention between studying the map and watching her footing. "I don't know how gun-happy our friendly neighborhood kidnapper is, so we'll follow them out to wherever they're going. Is your car manual or auto?"
"Manual."
"Shit," April hissed. Her gear-shifting capabilities were passable, but not as strong as she'd like in an emergency situation when she would also be having to keep a hand free for other tasks, so she asked, "How's your pursuit driving?"
"Let's find out." As they approached the lot, Hart pulled the key fob from his pocket and pressed the button to make the car beep. His new companion accordingly ran toward the vehicle and, as they got in, he started the ignition and asked, "When are you—"
"Whiteknights Road," she cut in. "The way they're headed, if their vehicle's parked on University property, they'll have to take Whiteknights. Go past Park Eat, right on Upper Redlands, right on Whiteknights, and pull over just past the intersection with Belle Avenue. That should give us the best vantage point, and hopefully they're using a company car—there's Redlands."
He made the turn, muttered, "Right on Whiteknights," to assure her that he'd internalized the directions, and asked, "So can you tell me who the hell you are now, or do you prefer keeping a little mystery to spice things up?"
April gave him the once-over, decided she wasn't entirely sure how much she could trust this guy, and said, "Jennifer Edwards." She took out her communicator and hooked the receiver into place. "I'm making a call. Just past Belle Ave," April reminded before tapping the communicator on. "Overseas relay. Open Channel S."
"Channel S open," crackled into her ear. "Hi, April."
"Gerry, everyone in my traveling party except for me has been abducted by someone who probably works for Gervaise Ravel. Two civilians were taken with them. I'm with Jonathan Hart, attempting—hold on." April pointed out the windshield and told Hart, "The Canary Mining van—that's the one."
"Should I try to be subtle?" Hart asked.
"Don't tailgate, but keep them in sight. If I think they're onto us, I'll let you know and advise accordingly." She returned to her interrupted conversation. "Gerry, we found the vehicle we think they're in. It belongs to one of Ravel's companies."
"Stay in pursuit. Give updates as you determine their direction. Use Channel D the next time you call in. Anything else for now?"
"Heading east."
"Canary Mining's got an office in London. You might be heading there. I'll inform Waverly."
8:07 a.m.
Crane allowed herself a few moments of entertainment. This wasn't anything to be amused by, she knew, but everything had pretty much sucked for the past year or so, so at this point she'd take what she could get in the way of humor.
She still had some modicum of sensitivity and decorum, however, so she kept her face impassive as Ashley Slate wordlessly gesticulated at the recently vacated Friends Bridge, started making some attempt at charades when words still failed to make their way out of him, and earned several side-eyes and wide berths as students recently released from lecture walked to their next destinations.
About a minute later, just as Ashley had managed to blurt out, "What—now—now what?" his phone went off and Crane promptly plucked the device from his coat pocket.
The number displayed on the screen was blocked, but she had one guess as to who it was and was soon proved right. As soon as she accepted the call, Gervaise Ravel greeted her with, "Where are you? Never mind; I don't care. Wherever you are, get back to Swindon. I don't normally do house calls but, when I do, I expect to be greeted in person. You better be there before I am."
Ravel cut the connection and Crane replaced Slate's phone, grabbing him by the arm to urge him along before he could get a word in. "We're going to your place. Pedal to the metal, Slate."
Although he didn't physically resist Crane's hustling him along to the carpark they'd used, Slate did finally have enough of a grip on his vocabulary to protest, "What about Mark? And Ilia and Francis? And I think that was Jennifer who ran off with that other guy—and then there's those other folks on the footbridge—"
"Dammit, fine." Crane kept tugging him in the same direction but made a conversational about-face. "You decide where we take the car. Your people are probably being taken to Ravel's offices in London. She wants us to meet her at your place. If we aren't there, I'd say there's better than a ninety percent chance you'll end up trying to rescue them on your own."
"You mean you'll ditch me?"
"In a manner of speaking." Crane released him and they got into Slate's car. "This—" She tapped at the choker around her neck. "—has poison in it. Ravel can kill me by having the stuff injected remotely."
"You can't remove it?" Her glare providing an adequate answer, Slate started the ignition and tried a different question. "Okay, you're ninety percent dead if we don't go home. What's the chances she'll kill Mark and his friends if we don't go to London?"
"Depends how they play their cards."
"I'm trying to weigh options here, Miss Crane. Gimme something to compare."
Crane hesitated. "I'd give a sixty percent chance of them all making it out unharmed if we don't help them, and I don't know how much we—or you—could improve that."
Slate backed out of their parking space. He exhaled through his nose. "Right. Swindon. Pedal to the metal. But once we've kept up appearances, I expect you to have some idea on how to extricate a few people from Ms. Ravel's custody. Get thinking."
8:10 a.m.
This was a very nice van.
Okay, so the seats—three rows, three seats in each row, two on the left and one on the right of the aisle, quality-looking leather storage pouches in the backs—were probably upholstered in this lovely red velvet to conceal any blood that might just happen to spill on them, but still. It was a very nice van.
And sure, the soft ambient lighting from the surprisingly elegant stained-glass-looking fixtures running along the roof of the van was only necessary because the windows were all blocked off—and the windows were probably paneled over to prevent captives from seeing where they were going—and the row with the driver's seat was blocked off so they couldn't see out the windshield either—but still. A very nice van.
And Napoleon Solo wasn't one to withhold his appreciation for the finer things in life.
"Hey, now this is a very nice van," Napoleon said, cheerfully disregarding Arthur and Cynthia's have you lost your freaking mind? expressions as they turned around in their front seats to stare at him. Mark and Illya didn't bother to look shocked, both because they knew better than that by now, and because they were otherwise occupied.
Illya—covertly, single-handedly, without looking—undoing Napoleon's ankle holster to allow Solo to twist around and keep his hands propped on the back of his seat, innocently within Max's line of vision.
Mark, cranking through ideas of how to remove and dispose of his own gun without Max noticing. Or maybe he could make a scene with his weapon once they exited the vehicle—unless they emerged in a private garage—and assuming the ever-cheerful Max wasn't also gun-happy—but then again—or—and—but—
Solo went on, "Is this a UK-exclusive model, do you know, or could I get something like this in the States?"
"'Fraid I can't help you there, Francis," Max returned. He glanced about approvingly. "It is a real nice one, though."
"On a more relevant note," Mark broke out of his thoughts to assert, "do you know if we'll be living long enough for Francis to go back to the States and look into buying a van?"
"Gee, I sure hope you will."
Napoleon grinned. "I'll take that as a solid 'maybe'. Ah, and out of curiosity: you mentioned that Ilia and I weren't supposed to be over at the bridge. Who was supposed to be there?"
"Can't remember their names," Max said. "A man and a lady who work for Miss R, but I only met them real quick once, since I'm from Miss R's New York office and they're from her London office. The gentleman looks a little like that fella—" He pointed a finger at Mark. "—but older, and he got darker hair. The lady's got red-blond hair. Bet she'd be real pretty if she didn't pack on the makeup like she does."
Ashley Slate and Robin Fenster. No question. Before Napoleon could resume his efforts to simultaneously make nice with Max and pump information from the man, a cheerful tune filled the van. Illya automatically supplied, "Le tombeau de Couperin, first movement."
"When you mentioned Miss R had the same name of that composer guy," Max smiled, "I found this. Lotta his stuff's pretty gloomy, but this is alright. 'Scuse me." He answered his warbling phone, keeping his eyes and gun on the prisoners. "Hi, Miss R…. Yeah, we're on the way now…. Okay…. Sure thing, Miss R…."
He hung up and replaced the device, chuckling. "Gosh, Miss R sure is unhappy right now. She won't be with us at the office until at least noon, so maybe she'll be simmered-down a little by the time she's ready to meet you guys."
Illya tapped at the unfastened holster he'd set on the crevice between him and Napoleon. Once he'd caught Solo's attention, he gestured with an arched brow toward Max. Are you certain you'd not rather shoot him?
Napoleon responded with a miniscule, negative shake of the head, so Illya resumed his wait for Max to not look in their direction for more than five seconds. Maybe he'd have an opportunity to slip the gun into the seat pouch if someone besides Napoleon seemed keen on engaging their guard in conversation.
"Say, Max…"
Wish granted: as soon as Max looked to Mark, Illya finished the job and popped the weapon into the pocket on the back of the chair.
"…in light of the development with the metal detector, I feel I ought to let you know that I am, fact, armed."
Max chuckled. "There actually isn't a detector on the way we're going into the building, but thanks for telling me." (Illya narrowed his eyes and promptly set to subtly returning Napoleon's gun to its previous place on the American's person.) "Give it here."
Mark undid his ankle holster and reached over to place the thing in the hand Max extended.
"This'd look pretty bad if it turned out you had a weapon after I said we didn't hafta pat you down," Max commented, then grinned. "I got it! Here." He unholstered Mark's weapon, puttered around for a few moments, shook the bullets out, and handed the bullet-less gun back to the British man from U.N.C.L.E.
Mark accepted it with a face of plain shock.
"Put it back where it was," Max urged.
As Mark numbly checked the gun was secure in the holster and set to reattaching the strap, Napoleon wondered, "Couldn't he pretend it's loaded around anyone besides you, Max?"
"Way I see it, he's either more honest than Miss R or less honest than Miss R. More honest, and he won't have the nerve to go around with an unloaded gun to face people with loaded guns. Less honest, and he'd've already shot me up on the way from the footbridge to the van."
"Can't fault that logic," Napoleon remarked, then nudged Illya's foot with his own to ensure the Russian wouldn't argue the point.
Illya shut his mouth.
Swindon
9:30 a.m.
"If the story I hear in London doesn't match yours, you're dead, Crane."
And with that, Gervaise Ravel slammed the door on the idiots. Idiots!
All they'd had to do was take money from Hart and give it to their contact from the Environment Agency.
Take the thing from the person and give it to the other person.
Easy.
Except to these idiots. Fools. Damn fools. Damn fools that let Hart give the money to someone else. Someone else, who the damn fools talked into making the payoff to the EA.
Well, not talked. Texted. How? Ravel wasn't sure, but Elinor Crane still had some U.N.C.L.E. tricks up her sleeve, so she was giving her and Slate the benefit of the doubt.
For now.
She'd get the Someone Elses' perspective on the matter soon enough, and it was still early.
She could still kill the damn fools before the day was out.
And that was something that could always boost her spirits.
Outside a building housing many legitimate businesses and also Canary Mining's offices
9:45 a.m.
"The Hart Warehousing situation has been resolved, all hostages recovered alive and well. A considerable cache of weapons recovered, as well. We shall keep the success quiet as long as possible—to avoid endangering Solo and the rest by sending Ms. Ravel into a rage—and then turn the matter over to Interpol and the German authorities."
"Yes, Mr. Waverly."
"Assess the situation in the office. Call for backup if necessary. Waverly out."
April put away her communicator and said, "Your people in Germany are safe. Find a place to drop me and I—"
"There's no 'I', Jennifer. There's 'we'. Should I find somewhere to park and we go in to get the rest of our people safe?"
Dancer weighed arguing the point, decided allowing Hart to help out with some preliminary reconnaissance wouldn't do any harm, and nodded.
Poor little corpse child.
Everything was cold. His extremities had gone numb, the skin on his face felt tight, and he could tell from these signals that he had suddenly come into possession of a pallor that could compete with—yes—a corpse.
He was no longer a child—no longer quite so little—but right now he could remember like it was yesterday. Remember Papa rubbing the cold little hands between his always-warm ones until he was successfully distracted from whatever had frightened him, until the circulation returned, until Papa declared his poor little corpse child banished in favor of his bright little Illyusha.
It was strange, how the loudest sound he heard—almost drowning out Max's mostly one-sided conversation with Smitty—could be his heart pounding. That meant blood was getting to his heart, which meant his heart was pumping it back out again, but somehow it didn't quite manage to get the color back in his skin—or sensation back into his hands and mouth—and that just didn't seem to make sense.
Then again, if his body made sense, he wouldn't be reacting this way to a lift.
Just calm down.
It's fine.
For now, they were on solid ground—underground—in the parking garage. That's fine.
And now they were in the elevator, but it wasn't moving, and the doors hadn't closed yet. That was fine.
And okay, now the doors were closing, but maybe—just maybe—Max would press the 2 or the 3 or—
Or the 39. Of course.
Of course, the thirty-ninth floor. Three times thirteen, for bad luck, for bad news, for things going wrong, for the cables snapping and the damn death box plummeting down, down, down without anything to catch them, stop them, stop the freefall—
Breathe.
That was an idea.
"Breathe," and this time he realized it was Napoleon whispering at his ear, and he could feel how tight his chest was and that—yes—breathing would probably be a good thing to take up again sometime.
So he kept his eyes on the numbers above the elevator doors, focused on the shoulder Napoleon kept pressed to his own, and above all kept breathing, almost managing to achieve a stable respiratory rate by the time the doors opened. He even felt his feet as they walked out of the lift and to the Canary Mining office suite, within which Smitty disappeared into one room with the container of electronics while Max marched them through the door across the hall into another room.
A storage room.
Fairly large.
Large room, large windows, shelves and boxes and a few chairs stacked atop one another, and presumably with the primary purpose of storing office supplies, but also perfectly suitable for storing people in a pinch.
"You guys can wait in here until Miss R is ready for ya. I'm gonna lock the door, but me or someone else will be standing guard outside so just knock if you need water or the bathroom or somethin'. You can snoop around if you get bored, but it's just blank forms and boring stuff like that." Max grinned. "Hey, if you find some pens and paper, feel free to doodle. I know it's not up there with them phone games, but better'n nothing, right?"
Napoleon chuckled in return. "Max, you're almost enough to make being kidnapped enjoyable."
"Told ya I had a way with people. See you guys later."
As soon as Max shut the door, a surprisingly loud and long serious of clanks signaled its being locked and strongly suggested that the old slide-a-credit-card-down-the-side trick wouldn't do a whole lot of good. There wasn't a keyhole on this side of the door, either, so trying to pick the lock was off the table. Seemed like a safety hazard, so perhaps Ravel had foreseen the possibility of hosting unwilling guests and installed this particular door to her own specifications.
The trio from U.N.C.L.E. accordingly set to searching out listening devices, alternative exits, or anything else of significance. Arthur and Cynthia occasionally followed after and peered at something that one of the others had inspected, more for something to do than anything else since they weren't really sure what this operation was geared toward.
"Nothing yet," Solo commented as he passed Kuryakin, who grunted in agreement and continued staring out the window. The brunet paused and followed the blond's line of vision as it scanned along the structural protrusions on the exterior walls. Barely holding a straight face, Napoleon informed him, "We are not scaling down the side of the building."
"But if we—"
"No." Maybe if they had some grappling equipment and everyone in their party had climbing experience… but neither of those was the case so Napoleon stressed, "Absolutely not."
Illya let out a breath. "You've no sense of adventure."
"You've no sense, full-stop."
Napoleon had just finished good-naturedly shaking his head and resuming his progress toward a metal shelf of boxes when Arthur recalled his attention with, "What's that?" His gaze switched quickly from Art to Illya at the Russian's sudden movement: hands being crammed into pockets.
"When Ilia was checking the blind, I thought I saw something… on his hands," Arthur explained, voice dwindling slightly as he noticed Illya's dark expression. The Brit tapped his fingertips to his palms as an indication for the American's benefit.
Napoleon crossed over to Illya, who promptly walked off behind the shelf the former had been about to examine. Solo followed to the semi-private segment of the room and Kuryakin presented his palms, allowing a clear view of the matching sets of cuts on each as he muttered, "In future I shall keep my nails trimmed in consideration of impromptu altercations with lifts."
Solo reached for the hands, then hesitated when they were jerked back. He turned his own hands over and waited until Illya rested his knuckles against the proffered palms to allow for a closer inspection.
"Not as bad as last time, but it's always the hands with you, isn't it?" Napoleon mused.
"I could break a toe next time if you would find that more invigorating."
"Thanks." Napoleon reached into one coat pocket with his left hand, into another pocket with his right, and produced antibiotic cream and a light pair of gloves. "For my delicate, lily-white hands in the misery of the British Isles," Solo explained the gloves, "and for my perpetually-wounded horobchyk," he supplied for the cream.
Before Napoleon could get the cap unscrewed and set to playing nurse, Illya took the small tube, squeezed a dollop onto one palm, and returned the cream so he could rub his palms together. He offered dryly, "Ointment but no bandages? How inconsiderate of you."
"I have two medium-size ones, not eight tiny ones that wouldn't get adhesive into an adjacent wound." Napoleon put the tube back in the pocket he'd retrieved it from. "Besides, you ever try to keep a band-aid on your palm? Hell of a job." He held up the gloves and Illya put them on to cover the wounds. "You're a hell of a job, too, but I like you anyway."
Illya smiled, and the wince he briefly lapsed into pulled his lips enough for Napoleon to notice a bit of red on a couple of teeth.
"Hold still a second."
"I didn't realize I was prancing about too exuberantly for you." As Solo grabbed his chin and started to lean in, he commented, "Is this really an appropriate time for that?"
"Just stay still, snarky." Napoleon used his free hand to carefully pull aside Illya's lower lip. When a blond eyebrow arched, he couldn't help but smile at the resulting distortion in the serious face, even as he took note of the bites inside. "It's not bleeding anymore. Was this from the elevator ride, too?"
Illya grunted irritably and, as soon as Napoleon withdrew his probing fingers, stated, "I was attempting to ground myself." He briefly held up his hands to include the cuts there in the statement.
"Ground?"
"Not lose myself to irrational fear."
"And the solution is to… draw blood?" Napoleon released his hold on Illya's chin as the Russian flicked his head away. "Have you mentioned this in your sessions?" With Dr. Boateng.
"'This' what?"
"Your thing with elevators. Your, uh, grounding techniques." The lack of eye contact seemed enough of an answer, so he asserted, "I'd strongly recommend you bring it up sometime, and you know that's an entirely reasonable suggestion."
Illya nodded curtly and resumed searching the room. Napoleon joined the Slates, gathered at the window, talking quietly.
"What are we gossiping about?" the American whispered.
Mark nodded at the glass. "Trying to figure where we are. We reckon London, East Side. Maybe near Whitechapel."
"Oh, good. Whitechapel. Maybe Mr. The Ripper could drop by and lend a hand."
Cynthia snorted. "Might be someone else's hand, though."
"He didn't dismember the victims, he—" Sensing Illya's gaze on him, and confirming it visually before the blue eyes shifted away quickly, Napoleon grinned and amended, "Ah, well, it's the thought that counts."
9:55 a.m.
"Hello." April smiled her brightest, which wasn't the easiest of feats as she leaned on the wall of the balcony onto which she'd followed Max, who'd come out here for a cigarette break. "Jennifer Edwards, freelance journalist. I noticed you were just in the Canary Mining office."
Max nodded, then politely turned his head to blow out a puff of smoke.
"Do you work there, by any chance?"
"Sure do, Miss. Doin' a story on us?"
April hummed and nodded. "How do you—what's your name?"
"Max."
"And how do you like working there, Max?"
"Had worse. Pays well. Get to talk a lot, and I'm kinda a people person."
As a light breeze blew Max's smoke into her face, April suppressed a cough by clearing her throat. "And what do you think of the… corporate culture?"
Max shrugged. "Not big on it, to be honest, but I'm not in the office a whole lot. I don't call any of the shots, neither. Just do what needs doin'."
"That sounds less than passionate—pardon me, Jennifer."
Dancer frowned as Jonathan Hart stepped out of the invisible box she'd relegated him to by the door. He was supposed to be a handy witness in case Max seemed inclined to throw her off the balcony, not become an active participant as she set out feelers for how receptive Max might be to lending a hand.
"Jonathan Hart, Hart Industries. You sound like a man who wouldn't mind a career change. How'd you like to work for me?"
Dancer raised a brow at Hart. "Nice subtle touch you got there."
Hart smirked. "Thank you." Back to Max. "So?" Back to Dancer as she coughed loudly.
"Sorry," she mumbled, waving a bit of smoke out of her face.
Max stumped out his cigarette on the top of the railing. "Eh, I don't really like these things anyway. Cigars, I like, but ain't got time for a cigar break during a work day." He looked at Hart. "A job with you, huh? Doin' what?"
"Helping people. You said you're a people person but aren't into the company culture of a mining corporation. Might be up your alley. Pays well. Starts immediately."
"How much immediately?"
"Right now."
"Doin' what, exactly?"
"Returning our friends to us."
Max transported his cigarette butt to the large ashtray by the door. "Friends?"
April clarified, "The folks you picked up in Reading. We have a feeling they'd rather be elsewhere just now."
"I'd rather that too, Miss, but—" He turned to Hart. "—that's a real short-term job there, Mr. H."
"Here." Hart produced a pen and a small sales receipt pad and started writing. "Starting now, you can work for me. Whatever you're making now, I'll double it. My company has several locations and lots of things that need doing, and after today you can have your choice of place and position. Right now, your first assignment is liberating our wayward friends from your former place of employment."
Hart turned around the pad on which he'd been scrawling an outline of a contract and held it out with the pen. "You sign, you agree. How about it, Max?"
Max accepted the offering, glanced over the just-legible scribbles, and added his name under Jonathan Hart's signature. "Alright, Mr. H."
Hart took the pad back and offered it to April next, prompting, "Witness."
"I…" April hedged, weighing whether to add her real name, put her alias, or refuse altogether. She mentally crossed her fingers that Hart would be a man of his word and signed Jennifer Edwards, even though that probably wouldn't be a legally-binding contribution on her part.
Jonathan looked at the pad returned to him, then nodded and tore off the top sheet to give to Max, keeping the copy imprinted below for himself.
"They'll want their stuff back, too, right?" Max asked.
"Stuff?" April asked back.
"Phones and all that."
"Yes."
"Okay, I'll get you their stuff first, make sure the coast's clear in the hallway in there, and then get your people, okay?"
Hart grinned. "Sounds good to me, Max."
As they returned to the inside of the building from the balcony, April said, "We'll wait by the elevators."
"Sure thing." Max started toward the door to the suite, then turned to ask Hart, "Want me to stick around a little afterward? Might look weird to some of my coworkers if I up and vanish in the middle of the workday, so it'd give you and your buddies some time to clear out of here before they notice anything's gone wrong."
Hart used a hand to redirect Max's attention to Dancer on this one, and she decided, "Stick around as long as you feel is necessary and safe. If you know when Ms. Ravel is supposed to be in, you should probably leave before then."
Max nodded slowly. "You know Miss R then, huh? She sure gets grumpy, don't she?"
April nodded back and Max disappeared into the suite. As soon as he'd gone in, she set up her communicator. "Open Channel D."
"Waverly here. What is it, Miss Dancer?"
"We have a man on the inside. All going well, we'll be out of here in a few minutes. All of us."
"Excellent."
"Yes, sir. I was thinking—" She broke off to gape as Max strode out from the suite, plastic container full of electronic devices in hand.
"You were thinking, Miss Dancer?"
"Uh, yes…" April smiled her thanks as Max dropped off the container with Jonathan and headed back into the offices. "…I was thinking that we should have an agent posted to the building, since our man on the inside will be defecting to work for Mr. Hart, and I'd like to make sure he makes it out."
"Why should I not have you handle that?"
"I was also thinking that the Slates and Mr. Hart could head to our London office for debriefing, and then I could go with Napoleon and Illya to wrap things up with Ashley Slate."
"Very well, Miss Dancer. Describe your man. I'll have an agent dispatched to meet him."
April finished up with Waverly and had just replaced her communicator when Max came back again, a small leather bag and zero people in tow. She furrowed her brow in a silent question as he offered the bag to her.
"You're a journalist, right? This is some money Miss R wanted to give to the English EPA for illegal purposes. Maybe you could investigate that."
"Sounds like a plan, Max."
Max grinned. "I'll go get your friends now."
This was turning out to be a pretty good day. A bad start, sure, what with having to abduct Francis and Ilia and those other three in Reading, but now it seemed like everything was coming up roses. The journalist lady would investigate Ravel's shady operations, the Hart guy was giving him a legitimate job, and all the folks from Reading would be released. They seemed decent folks, too, the lot of them.
At least, all of those things were the things that Max wanted to be true. And it wasn't as if his life was going great at this point, so why not take a chance? He smiled to himself, unlocked the door to the storage room, pushed it open—and shook his head at the gun being pointed at him.
"Now that's no way to thank someone."
Mark withheld a sigh and put the unloaded gun back in its holster.
Max waved and, when nobody moved, added, "Let's go. Couple friends of yours came to pick you up."
Francis tucked one arm behind his back. Scratched his chin with the opposite hand. "Uh… friends, Max?"
"Miss Edwards and Mr. Hart. C'mon, let's move out."
"Oh, Jen, thank you, thank you, thank you!"
April returned the hug. "We have to hurry—"
"And thanks to you, too, Mister," Cyn added, giving Hart a light punch in the arm. "Okay, let's go."
The group piled into the elevator once it arrived, and Napoleon promptly grabbed both of Illya's hands and squeezed them until the blue eyes locked onto his. "Any particular plans now, Jennifer?" Solo asked, not breaking his shared gaze with Kuryakin and intermittently tightening his grip in a steady rhythm.
"Mark takes Art, Cyn, and Mr. Hart to the London office," Dancer started, pressing the button for the ground floor.
Before she could continue, Solo urged, "What's the plan, Illya?"
"Mark takes Art, Cyn, and Mr. Hart to the London office," Illya parroted tightly.
"Jennifer?"
April looked a bit confused but pressed on with, "The rest of us catch up with Ashley to sort things out on his end."
"Illya."
"The rest of us catch up with Ashley to sort things out on his end," Illya echoed.
Napoleon smiled. "Good." If Illya was talking and holding his hands, he couldn't be attempting to stab himself with teeth or fingernails. "What are we doing for transportation, Jennifer?"
April turned to Hart. "Your next stop is walking distance. Mind if we borrow your car?"
In response, Jonathan Hart rested the container of electronics on one hip and used his free hand to take the key from his pocket, handing it over.
April held up the key.
"Stick shift, I presume," Napoleon posited. "Who's driving?"
"I can drive if you can try to get hold of Ashley on the phone."
"Illya?"
"We are borrowing a car," Kuryakin summarized flatly, "and Jennifer is driving and it is a stick shift, you presume, while you try to get hold of Ashley on the phone."
The elevator doors opened and Hart asked, "Is he okay?"
"He is okay," Kuryakin supplied, pulling away from one of the hands holding his but keeping a grip on the other to haul Solo out of the lift.
In the lobby, they redistributed the assorted items in the container, Mark distributed his uncle's phone number to Solo, Dancer put the leather bag of money in the now-empty vessel to be brought to the U.N.C.L.E.-London office, and the group split up. April led the way to the rental car, keeping up a pace just under a jog as Napoleon got a head start on getting a hold of Ashley Slate, calling the number twice and getting into the passenger seat of the rental car before getting a live person.
"Francis?"
"Hi, Ashley, how are you? Hope I'm not bothering you in the middle of something important."
"No… what… I thought—ah, fuck it, are you alright? All of you? We saw in Reading…"
"We're all in fair to pristine condition," Napoleon assured. "I have a feeling another little get-together might be in order. Where are you, old boy?"
"I—actually, Miss Crane and I were just on our way to save you all, but it seems you've taken care of that without our assistance."
Illya pressed his feet into the floor as the car briefly jerked before resuming its previous rate of speed, and Napoleon and April demanded of the phone: "Crane?"
"Ah—Robin, I meant…"
"I'm probably going to be dead before noon," another voice asserted grimly, "so what the hell? Elinor Crane. Former international spy and wildly successful impersonator of Englishwomen. What's shakin', Francis?"
Stamping down the shock of the prodigal CEA having allegedly returned, Napoleon managed, "Hi… Ms. Crane—I, uh, think we should definitely have another get-together. Where can we meet? Where are you?"
"Round halfway between Swindon and Reading," Ashley supplied.
"Okay, how about you meet us at your sister's place?"
"Er… yeah. And if you happen to be acquainted with anyone familiar with devious electro-mechanical devices and the deactivation thereof, I'm sure Ms. Crane'd be well appreciative."
Napoleon looked to the back seat and Illya shrugged with a definitive air of false modesty, so the brunet declared, "En route as we speak, old man. Contact me if you run into difficulties before we see you."
"Right, and… you said everyone's… mostly alright?"
"Ilia picked up a couple of scratches; he'll live. We'll see you soon." Solo terminated the connection and set up his communicator.
"Use Channel D," Dancer prompted.
"Open Channel D."
"Yes, Mr. Solo? Have you located Ashley Slate?"
"We're going to meet him at Constance Slate's house, arriving around half past eleven if traffic stays light—and, Mr. Waverly…"
"Yes, yes?"
"We might have found Ms. Crane."
11:30 a.m.
The front door opened as soon as they emerged from the car and Ashley ushered them in with, "Miss Crane's just scraping off her makeup—"
"Where's the device person?"
April grabbed Napoleon's forearm and gave it a vigorous shake—holy what-the-heck, it's Ms. Crane!—as Illya stepped forward with, "At your service, madam."
"Good. This is the device." Crane indicated the choker she was wearing. "If Ravel thinks I'm turning against her, she says there is poison in the choker that will be injected into my neck."
Illya moved his face in for a slightly closer look, but still remained a solid two feet away as he mused mostly to himself, "Like a variant of a Waverly ring."
"Waverly ring?" Napoleon echoed and Illya glanced sharply at him.
"It is a hydrocarbon with a ring structure in which the hydrogen atoms are all contained within the loop of carbons, pointing inward as with the poison injectors."
Napoleon would have taken this at face value but Chemistry Student April looked skeptical, so Solo prompted, "That so?"
"Hypothetical, of course. Like benzene turned outside-in."
Dancer smirked. "And what idiot came up with that, blondie?"
"Joseph Waverly, a minimally important chemist from New Zealand."
Her lips quirked further upward. "Good old Joe, huh?"
Crane clapped her hands loudly and, at that call for attention, Kuryakin turned back to the choker, observing the flat metallic circles joined by a solid-looking chain of a lighter shade of metal. "The poison is in the gemstones, I would guess," he remarked in reference to the ruby-red squares at the center of the larger circular plates.
"That sounds reasonable," Crane said and Illya nodded, tilting his head and squinting at the red dots as if to further convince himself that, rather than gems, they were tiny vials containing liquid. She rolled her eyes. "You can come closer if you want. I tend not to give a fuck about personal space when my life is at stake."
The Russian glanced up to frown at her. "Perhaps you do not, but it is not my life that is at stake."
"Would it help if I threatened to poke out an eyeball?"
He appeared to consider this. "No. I could put it back in."
Crane scowled and motioned somewhat violent with one hand. "Get in here."
Illya sighed a bit but stepped nearer, offering, "Pardon my breathing down your neck, madam," as he made a closer visual inspection.
After a few moments of his fingers hovering just above the device, she snapped, "You can touch it if you need to. I won't bite."
"No, but you might poke my eye out."
"And I'd squish it like a grape so you couldn't put it back."
Kuryakin withdrew far enough to meet Crane's eyes and, when they grinned at each other, Solo griped, "How come my telling you to keep your eyes peeled is gross, but Ms. Crane threatening to pop your eyeball is funny?"
"I told you I don't make sense," Illya shrugged, then removed one of his gloves to delicately run a pinky beneath one of the larger circles and attempt to view the hidden side of the choker. "Have you applied much force in attempting to liberate yourself?"
"I tugged and twisted at it like all hell when it was put on and I was told what it was," Crane said, "but Ravel said that severing any of the connectors would also set it off."
Illya hummed. "Not sensitive to shock, then."
After almost a minute of quiet, Ashley inserted tentatively, "Do you think you can remove it?"
Illya spared him an impatient look. "Of course."
"Without killing Miss Crane, I mean."
"Can? Yes. Will? Maybe." Illya straightened up, frowned in thought, and decided, "I will need my toiletries bag, headphones, paper towels or a comparably thin fabric, and a toothpick. Francis, would you be so kind?"
Napoleon gave a jaunty salute and set off with, "As you wish."
"I'd hate to be rude, Ilia," Ashley said slowly, "but I'm failing to see how any of those things would be helpful in this situation."
"That is understandable," Illya returned, pulling his phone from his pocket and using the flashlight function to look behind each of the metal circles he pulled at with his pinky.
"There is some reason for your requesting them, I hope," Slate continued. "One to do with removing the necklace, I hope."
"And I would hope that you would hope so, Mr. Slate."
"Here we go," Solo announced his return, placing each item on the back of the couch near where Kuryakin and Crane were standing. "Bag, headphones, toothpick, paper towels, and Godspeed to you, MacGyvervich."
"Ah, thank you." Illya rummaged through the contents of the small bag, pulling out travel-sized containers of hand sanitizer, moisturizer, and toothpaste. "You may sustain minor burns," he informed Crane, "but, all going well, that is all."
April's eyelids fluttered in surprise. "Burns?"
The Russian hummed and used the toothpick to pry up a panel on one side of the headphones, shaking some things out of the compartment he opened.
"At this point," Crane said, "I'd let you try pretty much anything, but I'd still appreciate some narration of what it is you're doing."
Illya held up one of the somethings—they looked like resistors—and labeled it: "Detonators."
He held up the container of hand sanitizer: "Conductive gel."
Held up the toothpaste tube: "Secret formulation."
Ashley held up a hand, which abruptly flew to his forehead as if drawn by a magnet as he realized, "Jesus, he's gonna blast it."
"'Blast' seems rather enthusiastic," Illya objected.
"Alright, how's 'blow someone's head off' suit you?"
"I'm not going to blow your head off," Illya informed Crane. "I'm going to remove the necklace and have it fall away before the needles can deploy and make the injections. Three tiny, simultaneous explosions. Teensy."
At Ashley's sound of distress, Crane snapped at April, "Get him out of here. I don't want Teensy here being distracted by anything." As Dancer escorted Slate from the room, Crane asked, "Think any metal might get in my neck?"
"Small chance, small bits, not deep. As I said, burns are the most likely outcome." He held up the moisturizer. "That is what this is for. It is the only item that is accurately labeled."
"Burns from the explosion?"
"Explosions, plural. Small sparks for detonation, small explosions. Tiny."
"Teensy?" Crane suggested with a smirk.
"Teensy-tiny. I should hardly deign to call them 'explosions' at all, really."
"What would you call 'em, then?"
Illya's expression turned rueful. "Almost entirely devoid of satisfaction."
In the kitchen, April nodded for Ashley to take a seat at the counter. "She'll be fine. Blondie knows his way around a kaboom."
"Is he typically kaboom-ing around a lady's throat?"
"Want something to drink? Tea? Coffee? Booze?"
"I take that as a 'no'. Coffee, thanks."
Dancer set to the coffee-brewing.
"I know that's rotten for the nerves, but I never cared for tea." He smiled weakly and started poking at the ceramic fruits set on the countertop, swapping their order: apple, banana, peach, grapes. "Don't spread it around. I'll be exiled."
"Mind if I ask how you got into this mess?" She finished setting up the coffee machine and poked around for a mug. "Working with Crane for Ravel?"
"Don't know all of Crane's story, except that she used to be some kind of a spy and didn't get under Ravel's thumb willingly. For me, I'm afraid it's rather a dull case of raging stupidity: started taking work giving legal advice to shady types." (Apple, banana, grapes, peach.) "Not trying to do anything illegal myself, and of course someone has to give the accused some amount of advisement regardless of their degree of shadiness, but it turned out most of them worked for Ravel." (Apple, grapes, banana, peach.)
"Assisting in bribery isn't generally all that legal," April pointed out.
"No. That's the first out-and-out illegal thing I've done, outside of running a red light." (Grapes, apple, banana, peach.) "Ravel said all my work for her employees would seem too much of a coincidence to be believed, and that she'd offer an anonymous tip to police regarding my underworld ties if I refused to handle it for her." (Grapes, banana, apple, peach.)
They looked to the door as Napoleon walked in. He waved at them with a few paper towels folded into strips as he headed to the sink. "These need to be wet. Wouldn't do to successfully explode the necklace off and then set Ms. Crane on fire. Ooh, is that coffee? Make enough for Ms. Crane, would you? She takes it black, as I recall."
"Ya got it, Francis," April returned with a thumbs-up.
Solo raised the now-soggy towels in a farewell gesture, heading back to the sitting room with, "Catch you on the flip side."
Illya half-turned at the returning footsteps and accepted the adequately soaked material, poking the towels between the choker and Crane's neck. Squeezing a putty-like material from the toothpaste tube and pressing it around three different spots on the necklace. Spreading some of the gel from the hand sanitizer bottle over the putty. Sticking a detonator in each of the three spots.
"You can cross your fingers if it would make you feel better," Illya offered.
"Thanks," Crane returned.
She didn't cross any fingers.
Napoleon crossed a few fingers and a couple of toes and his arms on her behalf.
Illya took note of that and muttered, "Rude," as he tapped around on his phone to open his self-made detonation app. Once he'd connected the sensors to the application, he inquired, "Would you like a countdown, madam, or do you prefer a surprise?"
"Fire at will, Teensy."
"Very well."
Fsssht!
"Oh, well."
Napoleon, who hadn't managed to resist the instinct to squeeze his eyes shut upon hearing the thing being set off, forced himself to look.
First priority: Crane's head was intact and still connected to the rest of her body by a neck that seemed, at first impression, to be in satisfactory condition.
Second priority: the necklace lay in three pieces on the carpet at her feet.
Crane started feeling around her neck, peeling off the remaining bits of paper towel and touching at the skin as she demanded, "What, disappointed that I'm still in one piece?"
Kuryakin shook his head. "It deployed. Francis, check for puncture wounds."
Solo stepped in quickly, replacing Crane's hands with his own to conduct a visual and tactile review of the condition of her throat, while the Russian shut down the detonation app, deactivating the link between it and the detonators in the event that they hadn't been damaged beyond repair.
A moment later, as April stuck her head into the room to check on the outcome, Napoleon stepped back again, smiling, "No puncture wounds. Not a mark on her."
Illya glanced down to the red poison squirted near the necklace fragments. "Speaking of Mark, I hope his mother was not overly attached to this carpet."
U.N.C.L.E.-London
Friday morning
"And that is your final decision, Ms. Crane?"
"Yes. This is U.N.C.L.E. I used to work for, isn't it?"
Waverly nodded.
"If my automatic choice is to save my own neck instead of attempting to save kidnap victims, I don't think getting back in the old saddle would be the right move."
"Sometimes saving yourself is the right decision, if your preservation would allow you to help more people."
"Yes, but I don't believe self-preservation should be the default for a good agent. It should be an option, not the option." Crane considered the man sitting across from her at the large, round table. "Waverly. I was told your name is Waverly. I wouldn't have remembered it otherwise."
"Indeed. Your memory for faces seems to have fared better than your memory for names."
"My visual memories are spotty. Muscle memory's good. Names of people and places—I have hunches about what or where or who something or someone is, but nothing I could identify with confidence." She looked at the table. "This strikes a familiar note." She gripped the edge and nodded when she successfully spun it a few inches around.
"Do you remember why your memory is as it is?"
"No."
"How is your memory for things outside of U.N.C.L.E.?"
"I have family in Delaware and New Jersey. Estranged. Can't remember why, so I'm guessing it has to do with U.N.C.L.E."
"Would you like to reconnect with them?"
Crane shrugged. "What else can I do? I have no job, no money, no friends—"
"Really? What about Ashley Slate?"
"Coworker. Largely unwilling."
"He's willing to help you get on your feet in the U.S., until you can provide for yourself or until you've reaffirmed your family ties. Would that be acceptable for you?"
She frowned. "He volunteered?"
"At my suggestion. Ravel may still be in England, and she is certainly freshly annoyed. She tends to prioritize her grudges, so I'd like to give some time for you to slip down a few places before Mr. Slate resumes his residence in this country." Waverly wove his fingers together and rested his hands on the table. "Would you mind keeping company with Mr. Slate?"
"No spy stuff?"
"No spy stuff."
"Good." She smiled humorlessly. "Slate's not cut out for this business."
Waverly chuckled. "As you don't object, then, he will join you for a time. You will have the remainder of your memories of U.N.C.L.E. reduced and we shall help retrain you for employment in another field."
"Before my memory goes, can you tell me one thing?"
"I'll tell you as much as you like, Ms. Crane, but you'll not remember it for long, I'm afraid. You will fly out to New York today to have the detraining done. Have you in a place not far from your grandmother by Monday."
Crane smiled. "Damn, crazy old lady's still holding on, huh?" She shook her head. "That wasn't the thing. I was wondering… was I someone? Someone important? Don't lie if I wasn't, but I have a feeling I was… someone."
"You were indeed, Ms. Crane. Yes. And I have absolute confidence that, whatever your new field of work, you will be someone in that line, as well. Pity you won't know it, but we'll all be pulling for you."
"Pity I can't be sure about it, but those seem like rare and strong words from you."
"Words well-deserved by a rare and strong colleague, Ms. Crane."
"Canary Mining was the only company that's had any interest in reopening the colliery," Waverly informed the quartet seated around the segment of table opposite him.
That is, he informed Dancer, Kuryakin, and Solo. Slate knew at least part of what the chief was going to tell them, as Mark had been around when Arthur, Cynthia, and Jonathan Hart were being debriefed yesterday.
Waverly went on. "Our office has notified the relevant parties in the prospective sale of the McCoy Colliery of the true nature of Canary Mining and, between the hostile takeover of the Hart warehouse and conspiracy to bribe a government agency, it seems the mine shall remain shuttered indefinitely."
Napoleon smiled at Mark. "I bet that'll make Art and Cyn's day." He frowned. "When were the parties notified, Mr. Waverly?"
"Yesterday."
Solo glanced back to Slate. "Then where was Cynthia running off to this morning, if the stakeholders meeting was canceled?"
"Not canceled," Mark said. "Had its agenda rearranged. Since coal's a no-go, it's a roundtable discussion on revitalizing the local economy without it. Hart's actually stopping in there before checking out the aftermath of the Germany situation. Said he's been thinking of starting operations the UK and, even if McCoy's not a good locale for a warehouse, he might be up for opening a support office or expanding his investments portfolio some other way."
One side of April's mouth quirked up. "Think if T.H.R.U.S.H. tries this again with another mine, he'll invest in their local economies, too?" She straightened up and added to Waverly, "Not, uh… not that I'd be hoping for that, sir."
Waverly quickly killed his rising smile, raised his brows as he thought he heard Kuryakin mutter something, then turned back to Dancer. "Of course not, Miss Dancer. Perhaps coming up with such economic alternatives can be a mission supported by your siblings, Mr. Slate."
This being just the opening he needed, Mark nodded. "Yes, sir. Regarding Arthur and Cynthia, sir, they… well, Mr. Waverly, I hope they won't be getting in much trouble for it."
"Trouble, Mr. Slate, for aiding in the prevention of T.H.R.U.S.H. acquiring a new location to store missiles? I should think not. If, however, this should become a habit of theirs—"
"It won't." At Waverly's elevated eyebrows, Mark caught himself and cleared his throat. "It won't, sir. I'll make sure they understand your position on the matter."
"Very good." Waverly stood and moved to peer out the window over the London streets. "Overall, I'd say you've had a very productive holiday. Exemplary work overall, yes. But—" He turned around. "—Mr. Kuryakin."
Illya sat to attention. "Sir."
"I can't argue with the result, but next time you will advise us when you intend to smuggle explosives onto a commercial flight."
"Even the little ones, sir?"
"Regardless of size, shape, color, origin, value, and musical preference, Mr. Kuryakin."
Illya inclined his head—"Yes, sir."—and Napoleon quickly scrubbed away a smile at the despondent slouch.
"Dismissed. Oh—and enjoy the rest of your holiday."
Once the doors had shut behind them, Mark clicked his tongue. "Ah, almost forgot." He pulled a business card from his pocket and flicked it over to April. "Hart said if you're ever in the fancy-pants part of Los Angeles—I mean, his neck of the woods—you should look him up. Talk over old times."
Dancer squinted mistrustfully at the card, decided that it was seldom a good idea to burn a mostly harmless bridge, and stuffed the thing into her back pocket.
Elsewhere in London
"Well, Miss Ravel."
"Well, Monsieur Marton."
"Losing to the proverbial meddling kids, and then losing the meddling kids before you could find out who they were and what they wanted? Less than an auspicious start as part of T.H.R.U.S.H., I must say."
"And I'm afraid I must agree. But onward and upward." She poured herself a whiskey from Marton's office bar, thought a moment, and poured one for him also. Offering Marton one of the glasses, she began, "There's a place I've had my eye on in the Pyrenees…"
Ten years ago
"Well, young man," she smiled, "have a seat."
"Well, severely overpaid psychotherapist," he returned, "don't mind if I do."
"Let's not leap to judgement," she said from her chair, the one which he knew for a fact cost enough to cover over half a semester's tuition at several universities. "This is our first session. How do you know how much I'm worth?"
He shrugged.
"Do you know why you're here today?"
"Offhand, I'd say it has something to do with my mother insisting I get in the car and then proceeding to take me here."
She clasped her hands on her desk.
He crossed his legs one knee over the other and let her patiently look at him for a few more moments before reattempting the answer. "I'm here because my parents are thinking I'll follow my dearly departed sister into the cold embrace of death." He held up a finger. "Correction: that I'll prematurely follow, etcetera, etcetera."
"And is that something they should be concerned about?"
"If there were any chance of that being the case, yes, it should."
"And what are the chances of that, Napoleon?"
"Never say never, I suppose, but the chances are just about nil, I'd say."
"Why do you think they're worried, then?"
"Fifty percent of their children have prematurely etcetera'd. I guess they don't like the odds."
"Do you like the odds?"
He pouted in thought. "How do you mean?"
"Are you worried that, even though the chances are nil right now, your mindset on that might… change?"
He sighed, turned to show her his profile, held his forehead in one hand, and pulled his angstiest Angsty Teen expression to intone, "I am now… thanks a lot for that."
She tilted her head and re-clasped her hands.
He spread himself out a bit more comfortably in the armchair and basked in the patient gaze upon him. After a pause to wonder how long it would take to wear her down, he said, "I go to school, I do my homework, my extracurriculars… I have friends, I go on dates… I clean my room, I feed my hamsters—overall, I seem to be doing fine." He grinned. "And Rogers and Hamsterstein are just peachy. I'll tell them you asked after 'em. They'll get a kick out of that, or at least that's the emotion I'll project onto the little fuzzballs."
"Just because someone's high-functioning doesn't mean there isn't something wrong, Napoleon."
He frowned. "High-functioning? What the hell does that mean?"
"It means that, even if you're getting out of bed in the morning and going through the motions, you can still be depressed."
"Wha—?" Napoleon shook his head rapidly, tossing off the unexaggerated shock to regain himself, which in this situation he felt merited his most frigid smile and a healthy dose of sarcasm. "I can still be depressed? Why, thank you! When the hell did that prospect enter the picture, pray tell?"
She pulled over the notebook lying open on her desk. As she put pencil to paper, she said in a deliberately, infuriatingly calm tone, "I'd appreciate if you wouldn't raise your voice to me."
"Swell. I'd appreciate if you wouldn't decide I'm depressed based on five minutes with me, and whatever my parents said in the couple of minutes it presumably took to make this appointment." He drummed his fingers on the arms of the chair. "I suppose you're documenting my anger issues over there, hm?"
She stopped writing. "You have anger issues?"
"If you can diagnose depression in mere minutes based on fuck-all information, one can only assume that you can diagnose deep-seated rage based on three seconds of a slightly raised voice." He smiled politely. "I don't think this is going to work out, do you?"
Outside, he took out his phone, texting that he was ready to be picked up.
Mom: That was fast for a 45-min appt…?
Napoleon: Fast and last. Never again, mother mine :)
Late March
Well, he'd been right about one thing: never say never. It had taken a few years but he did, in fact, end up seeing a mental health professional again. Two of them. One, he saw once for a psych evaluation upon joining U.N.C.L.E. The second, he'd be seeing now. In a few minutes—
"Illya," a stocky man emerging from one of the inner offices called over with a smile and a Ghanaian accent. "Come on in."
—or right now.
Napoleon got up as Illya did and followed him, smiling reassuringly when the blond head briefly turned around as if checking that he was there, joining him on the short trip from the waiting area to Dr. Boateng's office.
"Go on in," Boateng urged the Russian, "and sit where you like." He turned to the brunet. "You must be Napoleon. I am Dr. Boateng. I don't believe you've had an appointment with us before."
"No," Solo confirmed, shaking the proffered hand. "I had my psych eval at the LA office and haven't needed any follow-ups on anything."
"Congratulations," Illya muttered, and Boateng said to the American, "Ah, I see. I believe you came to visit Illya during his stay with us in January."
The doctor shut the door and gestured for Napoleon to take a seat. "I did not know at that time that you were in a relationship with Illya." The doctor took his own seat and drew a notepad and a pencil from his desk. "He privileged that information to me after his stay with us ended."
"I assumed you would not mind if I told," Illya said to Napoleon. "I apologize if that was presumptuous of me."
"Hey, you know me," Solo grinned. "I wouldn't mind it being shouted from the rooftops."
"But I did not shout it from rooftops. I mumbled it in a psychiatrist's office."
"I don't mind that either."
"That is good." Illya crossed his arms at that point and slouched down in his chair, addressing his shoes as he said, "If you please, Dr. Boateng."
Napoleon looked to the psychiatrist.
"Illya asked me to share his diagnoses with you," Boateng explained.
"Diagnoses, plural?" Solo asked.
"Yes," Illya informed his toes. "In the event that it's escaped your notice, Napoleon, I am quite the disaster."
Boateng smiled. "And why are you here, Illya?"
"To make some improvement in that state of affairs."
"And you have been doing that." Kuryakin shrugged one shoulder and didn't argue the point, so Boateng returned to Solo. "I understand Illya has already told you about his depression. You are assisting him in staying on track with his medication."
Napoleon nodded. He looked to Illya. "Has it been helping much?"
Illya shrugged the other shoulder. "Perhaps. It, you, April, Mark, and Dr. Boateng all seem to have been helping, so I cannot tell which is the most helpful. It is a poorly designed experiment, but the overall effect has been promising thus far."
The blue eyes flicked over to the psychiatrist, and Boateng took his cue: "Illya has also had some struggles with anxiety, but its effects have not been as intrusive on a daily basis as those of depression. We are sticking with talk therapy for that, rather than considering medication at this point."
Napoleon shielded his mouth with one hand, poked at the Russian's shoulder with the other to get his attention, and mouthed, "Elevators?"
Illya informed the Ghanaian, "There is something that Napoleon believes I should discuss with you, vis-à-vis anxiety. Next session, yes?" At Boateng's nod, Illya resumed his staring contest with the toes of his shoes.
"The last diagnosis to discuss today," Boateng went on, "is the most tentative. I am not a specialist in the relevant field and, you see…"
"I am not particularly cooperative," Kuryakin supplied, "so I refuse to see a specialist."
"Why don't you want to see a specialist?" Solo prompted.
"I am reasonably comfortable with Dr. Boateng. I am making improvements. I do not believe seeing a specialist will further advance those improvements."
"Okay. And what sort of specialist is it that you refuse to see?"
Boateng gave the blond several moments to answer but, when no response seemed forthcoming, provided it himself. "A specialist in autism spectrum disorders. Based on what Illya has told me and what I have observed—including some savant-like qualities regarding memory and calculation—that seems to me a very likely diagnosis, and a likely contributor to his anxiety and depression. Additionally, Illya was diagnosed with autism as a young child, but his parents disagreed with the diagnosis and took him elsewhere, to be treated for other disorders."
Illya grunted and tucked his chin lower to mutter, "They'd believe me a psychopath sooner than this."
Taking note of the increasingly unfriendly body language, Napoleon put a hand on the arm of Illya's chair rather than his person. "That doesn't mean this is worse than being a psychopath."
"So I've heard." His chin lifted the smallest amount, enough to allow eye contact with the American and offer a dry smirk along with, "I've been seeing a psychiatrist about these things, you know." The smirk faded. "What now, then?"
Solo glanced between doctor and client, not sure whether he or Boateng was the intended addressee of that question. When Boateng failed to jump in, he asked, "'What now, then' what, chou?"
"That about covers the breadth of what Dr. Boateng and I are addressing in our sessions. So. Questions, comments, concerns, tendering of resignations?"
Figuring that the resignation-tendering remark was a flippant ask regarding whether they were breaking up, and figuring that he could figuratively throttle Illya later for thinking this matter would prompt Napoleon to run for the hills, Solo took a moment to decide how to phrase his response.
"In England," he started carefully, "you touched on something that does… worry me a bit. I'd like to bring it up now, since maybe Dr. Boateng could help facilitate the discussion."
At the hesitation, Illya pointed out, "I cannot give my approval for your bringing it up, if I do not know what it is."
"Okay. Well. I'm a little concerned about how our relationship might change as we spend more time apart," Napoleon admitted. He added to the Ghanaian, "Illya's mentioned that his relationship with his parents might have been affected by not spending much time with them so—"
"No."
Solo and Boateng turned to Kuryakin.
"No."
"Illya," the psychiatrist said, "if this is something that concerns Napoleon—"
"No."
"Okay. Why don't you wait in your office?"
"No."
"I will talk with Napoleon for a little bit, and he will be with you shortly. Okay?"
"No," the blond said, then shook his head and blinked a few times. "Yes, I—yes. Yes, yes, yes." He stood and stiffly exited the room, leaving the American to look with a silent question to the doctor.
"Have you seen this behavior from Illya before?" Boateng asked once the door had been shut again.
"Something similar," Napoleon said slowly. "He'll just up and shut himself in his room all of a sudden. I try to talk to him and get him to tell me what's wrong, but I always end up letting him be until he returns on his own."
"It is a manifestation of anxiety. Letting him be is usually fine. He prefers to calm himself by himself."
Napoleon nodded. "So he's… upset by what I said?"
"That seems likely."
"I guess that's reassuring in a way—that he'd care if we started drifting apart—but I can't imagine his not talking about it will help much."
"It will not but, as you pointed out, trying to talk about it now is not… on the table. He might bring it up with you later, and I will try to bring it up with him at our next session to see how that goes."
Napoleon nodded again. "Meanwhile, could I have your opinion on it? On—heck, I think I need your opinion on a lot of things now."
Boateng glanced to the clock on his computer screen. "I am all yours for the next thirty minutes. If you need more time, we can schedule an appointment for just you and me, or see if Illya would be willing to share another session."
"Is it—I'm really going to sound like an ignoramus here, but I might as well get the stupid question out of the way so I don't end up dwelling on it somewhere down the line. Is it okay for him to be dating me? I mean, we're doing fine by me, but if it's doing harm to him…."
"Because of the tentative diagnosis of autism," Boateng guessed and Solo nodded, so he continued. "As is implied by the term 'autism spectrum', there is quite a wide range of how deeply affected people can be, and in what ways. Illya is very high-functioning and—does that term disturb you?"
Napoleon almost winced again as he realized that his cringing at the word high-functioning had not gone unnoticed. "I guess it's, uh, because it makes it sound like something's… wrong with him."
"I would hesitate to agree with the characterization of something being wrong. Different, yes. Neurologically atypical, yes. Perhaps needing to be addressed, yes. Would benefit from a good support system, yes."
"I think everyone could benefit from a good support system."
"True, indeed. Illya, perhaps a bit more at the moment, which brings us to something that I would like to discuss. Are you familiar with the concept of codependency, Napoleon?"
Napoleon propped one ankle on the opposite knee. "Vaguely."
"You asked if it is okay to be in a relationship with Illya, and this is the arena in which I would advise some caution. You have noticed, I'm sure, that Illya does not easily develop bonds with people. Deep bonds, especially."
Nod.
"When someone with social difficulties does develop a bond, in some cases it may happen that those one or two relationships become, in a sense, all-consuming. It is not the same as obsession-stalking, but the people involved can come to believe that the person with the difficulties needs caretaking more than is actually necessary. Perhaps their relationships with other people may suffer."
Napoleon frowned. "Well, I'm terrible. I was just thinking a while ago that he sort of needs me."
"It does not make you terrible, Napoleon. And, to an extent, I would say he does need you. Not for everything, of course, or in every way. As a person with mental health issues in early adulthood, he does need support and he trusts you to help in that. Where we must be cautious is not being overzealous in providing that support. It will not help him if both you and he feel that he is less capable of looking after himself than he actually is."
"How do we do… not that?"
"There is no one-size-fits-all solution. One thing you may watch for, however, is to avoid any backsliding. If you notice that you are starting to do more for him than usual without cause, that might be a reason for concern."
Napoleon nodded solemnly.
"On that note, I will add that I am confident in your being a good partner for Illya. You seem to have good instincts where he is concerned. Illya has spent most of his life accommodating himself to other people's expectations of social behaviors. You, on the other hand, have made an effort to meet him where he is."
Napoleon offered his best smile to contrast with his nerves. "And that's okay, he asked hopefully."
"That is very okay," Boateng returned the grin. "It is, of course, important that he be able to operate in the broader society—and, if nothing else, his prior experiences with therapy were quite effective in teaching him how he is expected to behave, improving his communication skills, so on, so forth.
"At the same time, however, there is only so much he can do, and it is a conscious effort on his part to put into effect what he has learned. We will continue to work on what Illya finds disruptive to his overall success, and I will occasionally suggest again that he see a specialist if I think it would benefit him," Boateng concluded, "but this might be, so to speak, as good as it gets."
"I think it's pretty good." Napoleon scratched the back of his neck. "I think I'll go see how he's doing now."
"Of course." Boateng flipped his notebook shut, placing it on the table with his pencil as he stood to extend a hand to Solo. "I am glad to meet you, Napoleon."
"Same here, Doctor."
Napoleon headed to his (and April and Mark and Illya's) office, leaned in the doorway once the door had slid itself open, and waited the three seconds it took for Illya to look up from the papers he was rifling through on his desk. "Ready to talk about it now?"
"No. That is a personal matter." He gathered the papers and tapped them on the surface to form an even pile, which he tucked into one of the filing drawers in the bottom of the desk. "We are at the office."
Napoleon glanced to the clock. "Under twenty minutes before we're supposed to knock off. Considering how much we got done over spring break, I don't think anyone'd mind if we slipped out a little early."
Illya stood, grabbed his jacket from the back of his freshly vacated chair, and strode out. Napoleon snagged his own coat and followed, repeating cheerfully as soon as they'd cleared out of Del Floria's and were starting down the sidewalk: "So, ready to talk about it now?"
"There is nothing to talk about. You have no cause for concern."
"Don't I?"
"No. You should realize that if you know how I—think about you."
Solo had a hunch that the word feel had been narrowly avoided as he pressed, "And how do you 'think' about me?"
Kuryakin furrowed his brow, holding a steely gaze with the pavement for several moments as he worked out the trajectory of this conversation in his head. Once he'd nodded to himself a couple of times, Solo put a hand to his wrist and Illya stepped to walk closer to the American, tacitly approving the request for hand-holding.
As soon as their fingers were intertwined, Illya said slowly, "You are very important to me, Napoleon." He shook his head a bit and corrected, "The most important. Not that you should let it go to your head." Squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin, the Russian demanded, "Say it again. The thing you are worried I will forget."
Napoleon hesitated, taking a second to process the abrupt command before saying, "I love you."
The offering was barely out of his mouth when Illya returned curtly, "And the same to you." A second later, when Napoleon stopped walking and he didn't, he stated at the resulting arm-tugging, "Ow."
"You mean that?"
"I assure you it was an 'ow' of the utmost sincerity."
"I meant, did you mean that you love me? You're not saying it to make me feel better?"
"Yes—that is… I'm not sure that I'm in—"
As Illya waved in circles with his free hand, Napoleon guessed, "In love?"
"—but I do—"
More waving and Solo supplied, "Love."
"—you. Or, at least, I believe that is most likely the case, and I will update you on the situation as necessary."
"Yes. Yes, please keep me posted on that."
"I will."
The End
A/N: Well, that was the thing that was. Hopefully it was somewhat amusing or, at minimum, not terribly offensive, :)
I'm starting to develop the plot for another story (yay?), but it'll be a while before that shows up around here: the "writing" part of "writing the story" hasn't started yet, and I'll probably wait until it's (almost) done before I start posting it.
Thanks a bunch for reading through!